


Iowa Field Notes

by trepkos



Series: Altered States [3]
Category: Angel: the Series, Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Angst, Biting, Comedy, Family, First Meetings, Frustration, Jealousy, M/M, Road Trip, Romance, Sexual Content, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-21
Updated: 2010-04-18
Packaged: 2017-10-07 11:04:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 49,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/64542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trepkos/pseuds/trepkos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spike and Riley start their new life together.<br/>It doesn't all go smoothly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Near Miss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Riley gets some news.

Spike was lying on the bed fully-dressed, with his boots on the covers, when he heard the sound of Riley Finn's pulse racing. The man was still halfway down the passage. They'd been killing time in Kansas City, in yet another hotel, for the last three days, and Riley had checked the Poste Restante every afternoon, but today was the first time his heart had sounded like a steam train on his return.

That could only mean one thing. He'd got his answer at last.

Spike got up and stood waiting.

The soft scrape of a key-card sliding down the lock, and then Riley was in the room, filling space as he always did, gladdening Spike's heart, and bringing in the sun, even when – like now – it was near dark outside, and raining cats and dogs.

"Hello love," Spike said. "What's the news?"

Riley took off his coat, shook water out of his hair, and held up the envelope bearing the 'Angel Investigations' logo for Spike's inspection. "It's here," he said, with somewhat embarrassed redundancy.

Spike smiled and shook his head. "I know that. But I don't have x-ray vision and neither do you." He paused, frowning slightly. "You _don't_ have x-ray vision do you?"

Riley shook his head and said seriously, "No, but the night-sights come as a separate accessory."

Spike snorted out a laugh, swiped the envelope, then surprised himself by balking at opening someone else's mail. Well, hadn't he grown as a person? He slapped it back into Riley's outstretched hand. "Well, it's got your name on, so open it you daft ha'porth. It won't read itself."

He watched as Riley tore open the first envelope, then more carefully prised up the flap on the one inside; the one Angel – or perhaps the cheerleader – had collected for them at the Post Office in LA.

A slight twitch of irritation at the corner of Riley's mouth as he read the cover letter was the only clue that everything wasn't quite right. Riley glanced quickly over the rest of the contents, then folded and replaced the papers in the official envelope.

"Well, that's okay then, I guess," he said. "I'm discharged, but dishonourably – for emotional instability."

Riley sounded strangely calm, but Spike was prepared to take enough umbrage for both of them. "What do they know? You seem pretty damn stable to me."

Riley just shrugged. "I'm free of them – that's what's important."

Spike sat down on the edge of the bed and studied his fingernails. "Sorry I brought this on you, mate," he said quietly.

"Don't be." Riley laid a hand on Spike's shoulder. "I don't care what they think – them or anyone else for that matter. I know I did the right thing. The only honourable thing."

"Huh. Someone does the right thing on my account. Must be a first, that." Spike tapped a cigarette out of the pack on the side-table and lit up, thoughtfully. "Still, you've waved goodbye to your Army pension. That's not generally to be sniffed at."

Riley shook his head. "Even if I'd never met you, I don't reckon I'd have lasted twenty years. Something else would have happened to tip me over the edge, wake me up to how wrong it was. What we were doing." He scratched the back of his head. "Well, I'd hope so anyway. Don't worry about it. And I told you, money isn't a big problem. I'm taking care of it."

Spike tilted his head in assent. He'd never been very good at keeping track of financial stuff; never needed to since he'd been turned, just took what he wanted. Couldn't do that any more, but despite his current status as the world's first neutered vampire, he never seemed to be short of blood and smokes.

Something of a relief, that. Riley was taking care of things. It was a strange feeling, but Spike thought he could get used to it.

Riley broke into Spike's reverie. "You know what scares me, Spike?"

Spike considered. Couldn't remember seeing Finn look scared: not really, genuinely, knicker-wettingly scared. Never wanted to either. Raising one eyebrow he posited, "Spiders?"

Riley rolled his eyes. "No."

"Puppets?" Spike hazarded.

Riley grinned and shook his head. "No!"

Spike frowned, as though giving the matter his full attention. Lowering his voice, he suggested, "Celine Dion?"

"No, you idiot!" Riley cuffed the back of his head affectionately.

"Well, what then, Dangermouse?"

"Hey, I'm trying to say something here, okay? Have a serious moment."

Spike watched as Riley turned the envelope over and over in his hands, and then placed it gingerly on the side table.

A police siren wailed in the distance.

Riley shifted and looked down at the floor. "What if I'd killed you?"

Riley had clearly been worrying about this for some time. "What d'you mean?" Spike said slowly.

"When we first met. If it hadn't happened the way it did. Say, I'd been out patrolling and you'd been in the wrong place at the wrong time. If I'd realised you were a vampire, I might have killed you outright. Without even talking to you – giving you a chance ..."

"Might have. Didn't." Spike's reply was quiet.

"Yeah, but … I was so blinkered. I'd let Professor Walsh brainwash me even before she, you know, _actually_ brainwashed me. I never even thought of you – of vampires – as things, I mean, people who used to be … shit!" Riley flushed. "I'm making a mess of this."

Spike kept quiet, letting him get his thoughts into politically correct format.

"I mean, I never knew you were still … you know, individuals. Inside."

"Well, it's not accepted wisdom," Spike said. "Not something the Initiative would want you to know, or the Watcher's Council for that matter. Have to de-humanise your enemies, everyone knows that. Can't have your troops feelin' all sorry for the bloke they're about to blow to kingdom come, in the middle of a battle."

Riley sat down and put his head in his hands. "Oh, God, those three I killed, before I got you out …"

Off Spike's puzzled look he added, "The ones in the cells next to you – the other 'test subjects' – back at the base."

"Huh! Kind of wondered what happened to them. That was you, was it?"

Riley nodded, biting his lower lip.

"Neat job – I never heard a thing …"

Spike tailed off at Riley's distressed expression. Riley was taking this way too seriously. If the pup got himself killed and eaten because he'd stopped to discuss ethics with some random vamp, Spike would never forgive himself.

"Don't beat yourself up over it, mate," he said. "It's not like vamps think much about their prey, any more than you did. It's kill or die, at least that's what your guts tell you. Most vamps come out of the ground hungry and mad as hell. A lot of 'em don't get past the stage of eating whoever they meet. Strangers, friends – even family."

He stubbed out the remains of his cigarette in the cut glass ashtray. "Or, if you do think about who you're going to kill today, it's just like choosin' between stuff on a menu. Vamp gets to a certain age, he starts developing tastes …"

He'd been trying to make Riley feel better about the vampires he'd killed, but had rambled off-topic, and Riley looked like he was finding it hard to cope with the information. Spike was still treading a fine line – working out what Riley could handle and what he couldn't. He shook his head at himself. Over the many years since he'd been turned, he'd forgotten how much value people – the good ones anyway – placed on each other's lives as well as their own.

In an effort to cheer Riley up a bit, he went on, "Course, most vamps don't live past the first year."

But now the Kid just looked concerned.

"How come?"

"Loads of ways the newly un-dead can get themselves re-killed. More than you might think, otherwise the place'd be crawling with 'em." He took a drag on his cigarette. "There's the really stupid ones that forget to get undercover in time. That thins the herd out quite a bit. Then there's fighting amongst themselves and pissing off their sires."

"They kill each other?" Riley seemed genuinely shocked.

"Well, it's considered bad manners to stake your fellow vamps," Spike conceded. "But there's no vampire policemen to enforce it, so it's pretty much down to who lives to tell the tale. Settin' themselves on fire with candles takes a few out – those that don't have the brains to run an electricity supply to their crypts. That's fun to watch if you don't get too close." Spike glanced sideways at Riley and saw a slight flinch.

"No such thing as vampire solidarity is there?" Riley said, in a wondering tone.

Spike ramped it up a bit, leaning towards him confidentially. "Some never even manage to dig 'emselves out. 'Specially the posh ones with the hardwood coffins."

"Enough already!" Half-amused, half-appalled, Riley pushed him away. "That's not funny."

"No, it's not," Spike said. "Wakin' up underground, in the dark – it's no picnic. And yeah, you might have killed me, or tried to anyway. No guarantee you'd have succeeded, mind. Never forget, most of 'em – of us – will off you in a heartbeat. I would have, not so long ago."

"Would you?"

"You _know_ I would …"

~~

Spike leaned in and kissed Riley on the lips: deadly soft, deadly serious – and Riley felt kind of rush you only get from petting a full-grown Nile crocodile. Breathless and already getting hard, Riley – tempting fate or fishing for compliments, he wasn't sure which – said, "So, what's changed?"

Spike waved a hand in front of his face as though Riley were a sleep-walker. "Hello? Chip-head to Riley?"

"You could have killed me ten times over," Riley said frankly. "Could have taken too much, when you fed from me. I wouldn't have known when to stop you, or had the will, not once you started."

"Yeah … I suppose I could," Spike said. "Guess in an odd way, my little spell in detention at Maggie Walsh's pleasure gave me a breather – time to think. Time to fall …" He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "You know …"

Riley blushed furiously and sat down hard on the bed next to Spike.

Spike looked at him with fondness and palmed his jaw. Then he grinned. "Needed time to see you as a person rather than a snack."

"A snack!" Riley protested.

"Well, four-course meal with all the trimmings, then. Does that satisfy your ego?"

"It's better," Riley conceded,

"Anyway, _I_ didn't used to eat just anyone." Spike shifted and folded his arms, making a brave assault on the moral high ground. "Usually spared the service classes. Mechanics and the like, people who had some use. And Buffy's mum, of course." He looked Riley in the eye. "People who treated me right."

Riley looked baffled. "Buffy's –?"

"Don't think I ever thanked you for getting me out of that hell-hole," Spike said, cutting him off. "That was a pretty impressive piece of work."

Riley smiled. "That's me. Plan Guy."

"Got any plans for us tonight?" Spike enquired, with every appearance of innocence.

Riley suddenly felt very warm. "Well if I told you that, it would ruin the plan. I'm not just Plan Guy, I'm also Covert Ops. Guy."

"Hmmm …" Spike almost purred. "Have I ever told you you're fucking edible when you think you're smarter than me?"

Now Riley looked away, blushing again. He seemed to do a lot of that around Spike. But he still had one more thing he wanted to ask. "Would you have turned me? If we'd met on the outside?"

~~

Spike pulled away, studying Riley's face, to see whether he wanted the truth, and couldn't decide. Why was he asking the question? He looked nervous – like he was worried the answer was going to hurt. Spike thought he'd better tread carefully. This was the kind of open-ended, rambling exchange that could get you into dangerous territory: full of trip-wires and land mines. But Riley wasn't Angelus. He wasn't deliberately trying to catch Spike out; there was no right or wrong answer. For whatever reason, he really wanted to know.

Spike had seen Dru turn some of her prey: pretty ones, young ones. She'd done a few after him, and until she'd abandoned them – as she always did – he'd burned with jealousy he dared not express; but he'd never felt the desire to try it himself. Not since …

"Honestly?"

"Honestly," Riley said.

"Then, no."

They waited for each other to fill the silence that followed.

Riley cracked first. "Why not?"

"It's nothing personal, mate. You're bloody gorgeous, and I'm sure you'd be a kick-ass vamp. Pretty near invincible I should think, with your know-how. But I didn't fall for your looks or your expertise. Fell for what's in here." He placed a hand over Riley's heart. "And that's something I was lucky enough to have time to find out. Truth is, the first and only time I turned someone – well, it didn't go well. I was too young – didn't know what I was doing – and it put me off. And after that, tutoring fledges looked like a lot of hard work to put in, just to increase the competition."

"Hard work?"

"Angelus always made it look that way. Some of the things he …" Spike bit his lower lip and stopped. No point harping on about it. He was putting it behind him. Putting it in a box and closing the lid.

Riley shook his head at himself. "It's okay Spike, I'm sorry I brought it up." He leaned in to kiss Spike again, but Spike pulled back.

"I'll do it. If you decide you want it … when the time's right. Told you I would. But it can be tricky. There's no guarantees. Gettin' vamped – it takes different people different ways. Some get mean. Some get reckless, or sex-crazed. Some like to cause pain, some just get childish. Seems to – I dunno, take away your inhibitions. Couldn't be sure that we'd stay together." Spike looked at his hands. "That you'd still see me the same way."

"How d'you mean?"

"You know what? I think we'll be fine. Like I said, you have a good heart. It's just that … well, the gift of eternal life – not everyone wants it once they've got it. And some love it so much they go overboard – treat their sire like a god." He reached over and ran the back of his hand down Riley's face. "I don't want that for you. Want us to be partners."

But as Riley pressed into Spike's touch, a distracted look came over Spike's face, and he abruptly got up off the bed and went outside.

~~


	2. Lucky Guy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reassurance, and a new outfit.

The night was cold, but Spike stood out on the balcony for what seemed to Riley like a very long time. He was smoking, and deep in thought.

Riley hadn't meant the conversation to go the way it had. He'd started out seeking some form of absolution for his time at the Initiative, but it just seemed to have stirred things up the wrong way; upset Spike in some obscure fashion, though he hadn't said so.

At last, Riley went to the sliding doors and took a step outside. "You okay?"

"Fine."

Riley went to lean on the balcony next to him: not speaking, just pressing against him slightly.

Eventually Spike said, "It's just … I don't know what's me any more, you know? Not really. This chip …"

"You want it out, don't you?"

Spike squashed the cigarette end under his boot. "How do I know what I really want any more? This thing stops me harming humans, right?"

"Yeah. Okay."

"And I'm gettin' along fine. The pig's blood takes a bit of gettin' used to, but it's no big deal."

"Well that's good, isn't it?"

"Yeah, but that's just it." Spike thumped his forearm against the wall. "What was all the other for then? I spent a hundred years killing, eatin' people – probably some of 'em were good people. Didn't even think about 'em. Don't even remember most of 'em. Didn't think about the rights and wrongs of it, just did as I was told and carried on doin' it. Followed the Demon Code, like I had no mind of my own. It's moronic."

"Believe it or not, Spike, that's all most people ever do."

Spike's face scrunched up. "Follow the Demon Code?"

"No!" Riley thwapped Spike lightly on the arm. "I mean, they just do what they're told. What they're taught. It's mostly what I did, till I met you." He didn't turn to look at Spike, just carried on staring at the skyline. "I was just lucky I guess."

~~

Spike barked an incredulous laugh into the night. "Lucky!"

"Yes, Spike. Lucky."

"You just got a dishonourable discharge from a job you loved, a job you were bloody good at – because of me – and you think you're _lucky?_"

"Damn straight."

Spike shook his head in bafflement. "How come?"

Riley stepped towards him, pressing him back against the wall, and Spike let himself be flattened, his face to the side, his eyes half-open, breathing sharply in anticipation. Riley's thigh was thrust between his; Riley's warm breath was on his neck.

"Because I can do this …" Riley pressed a kiss on Spike's temple. "And this …" He ran a finger down the side of Spike's neck. "And this …" He tilted Spike's chin and turned his head so that blue eyes met grey, looking him straight in the eye. "I am a lucky guy."

Spike snorted: embarrassed, amused, and aroused, as he always was when the big lunk stood so close, talking softly to him like he did: meaning every sweet word.

"And do you wanna know what makes me even luckier?" Riley asked innocently.

Feeling warmth spread through him, Spike replied, as coolly as he could manage, "Maybe I do."

"Because the next thing I'm gonna do …"

Riley took him by the upper arm and led him indoors, and Spike offered mild sulky resistance. Not that he didn't want it; he was just being perverse because it was always even better if he got the bloke's motor really revving.

"… is take you over to that bed …"

Riley jerked Spike towards him and laced their fingers together, gently pushed him backwards onto the bed and clambered on top of him.

"… and share the luck around."

~~

Afterwards, they lay side by side, Spike pushing himself against Riley's ribs, nudging him with his elbow for no apparent reason but to get even more of his attention.

"So what's this farm of yours like, Finn? Chicks and ducks and geese all a-scurryin'?"

It sounded so ludicrous in Spike's accent that Riley looked at him pityingly. "No, it's mostly corn." He paused for effect. "So you should fit right in."

"Hey!" Spike swatted harmlessly at him.

Riley caught his hand and planted a kiss on the knuckles, admitting, "And I'm afraid I don't have a Surrey with a fringe on top to drive you out in, either."

"But you have horses."

There was a hopeful, upward lilt to Spike's voice, so Riley – equally hopeful – asked, "You wanna ride?"

"No. Just wanted to know if you've got any, is all."

Okay.

"Sure, dogs, cats, a couple of goats, and horses. We don't need 'em, but my family like horses."

Riley closed his eyes and settled, as if ready for peaceful sleep: knowing full well that any kind of rest was some way away.

"So, do you have to – for example …" Spike's tone was one of academic enquiry; "... wear a Stetson, and … chaps?"

Riley opened his eyes again and sighed. "You've been thinking way too hard about this ..."

"You got the _hard_ bit right …"

"Spike, I'm a farmer, not cowboy," Riley said, blithely consigning the sledgehammer innuendo to oblivion.

Spike raised himself on his arms, rested his chin on Riley's chest and pursed his lips. "But, the farmer and the cowman can be friends, right?" he insisted. "Says so in the song."

"Hey, I live in Iowa, not Oklahoma. And since when do you like musicals so much?"

~~

Now it was Spike's turn to avoid the issue. Riley didn't have to know how choked-up he got when 'The Sound of Music' was on TV. He grunted with disappointment. "Hmph. So no cowboy hat then."

"No hat."

"And no chaps …?"

"In your dreams, Tonto."

"Hmm."

Spike lay back with a theatrical sigh of longing. He ran a hand over his stomach and down under the sheet.

After all, vamp could dream ...

~~

Next morning, leaving Spike sleeping the sleep of the un-dead, Riley penned a quick note: "Gone shopping. Will get fresh blood." Then he slipped out of the hotel room and down to Reception.

Blood was on the list, but it wasn't the main item.

It was strangely embarrassing, asking the receptionist where the nearest Western clothing store was. No reason on earth why he should be embarrassed. No one knew what he was going there for. Could be a shirt; or jeans. He rode horses; he had every right to go into a Western clothing store, and buy anything related to horse-riding that he wanted.

It wasn't like he had a tattoo on his forehead, or a flashing sign or something.

He glanced at himself in a shop window as he walked past, just to check.

When he got to the store, it took quite a while before he found what he wanted. The fact that he was trying to avoid asking for help didn't speed things up any, but eventually he homed in on the targets and took a few sizes to the fitting room.

Then he was in the fitting room, trying them on over his jeans.

Which was not how they would be worn when he put them on for real.

Black.

Chaps.

He turned around, inspecting himself from different angles. How was it possible to be embarrassed when you were completely on your own?

"Okay. Now I'm 'Cowboy Guy'," he muttered to himself. He wondered how many more 'Guys' he had in his repertoire. Or should that be closet?

He was drawing the line at Red Indian.

It was disturbing – not to mention inconvenient – but he was getting turned on. Not from looking at his own reflection: of course not – but in anticipation of Spike's reaction. He was sorely tempted to wear them for him tonight, or even this afternoon, but that wasn't the plan. Things might get tough later on; everyone had rough patches in their relationships. This was just a little extra something to hold in reserve, for one of those times.

He hung the chaps that were the wrong size back on the hangers, then took the ones he was wearing and folded them neatly. He checked to see whether he was respectable, and just about passed muster.

Then he took a deep breath and went to the check-out.

Which was when his mouth somehow got disconnected from his brain, because his horrified ears heard the gratuitous explanation, "It's for a play," floating out onto the airwaves, closely followed by something even worse.

"I'm a thespian."

"Oh…kay." The assistant looked at him oddly.

Very covert, Lt. Finn.

Ex-Lt. Finn.

The assistant was now staring very hard at the register, as though afraid to look Riley in the face, and Riley, for his part, was completely fine with that.

"Any other items you need for your … 'play'?"

Riley coughed nervously. "No, thanks, I think that's all."

"Sure you don't need a hat?" The assistant's voice sounded strained; he seemed to be choking.

Panicking a little, Riley grabbed a hat from the nearby display model and placed it on top of the chaps.

"Fine. A hat. Thanks. That's everything." He fished in his pockets for his wallet, and hastily drew out a wad of cash.

The assistant seemed to have regained control of himself, because as he handed Riley his change, he looked up and said, with a show of innocent helpfulness, "If you need a gun, they sell 'em in the shop next-door."

Riley was about to thank him, until he remembered that the shop next-door was a toyshop. That was a little too far. With more presence of mind than he'd displayed on this mission up till now, Riley held the assistant's gaze coolly for a moment and said, "No, thanks. I already have a gun."

He smiled unobtrusively while the assistant quickly packed his goods and told him – rather nervously – to have a nice day.

~~


	3. Hello, Iowa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Riley phones home.

This was weird.

Another day, another hotel; that was no surprise. What _was_ a bit unnerving was that they were still getting ever nearer to Iowa Boy's home town.

It was twenty-four hours since Riley had picked up his discharge papers at Kansas City's main post office. Spike had spent the latter part of the day in the passenger seat of the SUV, snoozing, fiddling with the radio, or just looking out of the window at the heavily overcast skies and expecting Riley to change course. Didn't know where to, but somewhere … else. Not the family homestead.

It was exactly where Riley had told him they were going, but he'd been sure the Kid was kidding.

"So let's get this straight," Spike said as he shrugged out of his coat and slung it over the back of a chair. "I'm _**really**_ gonna meet your mum?"

"Sure. Why not?"

"Well …" Spike looked down at himself theatrically, as though the answer should be obvious to anyone with half a brain; but Riley didn't bite, so he was forced to elaborate. "How are you gonna explain … me?"

Riley sat down on the side of the bed farthest from Spike and picked up the phone, saying, "You'll see. Well, you'll hear anyway."

And then he was dialling.

It took a moment for the penny to drop. When it did, Spike leaned over and tried to cut off the call, but Riley just batted his hand away. Spike launched himself across the bed, trying to grab the phone, but Riley picked up the whole kit-and-caboodle and shielded it with his body.

"Hi, Mom. It's me."

Spike resorted to frantically signalling, 'No!' but Riley just threw himself back against the pillows, still cradling the phone protectively, and leaving Spike to watch and listen.

"Riley? You sound close, where are you? Are you okay? When we didn't see you at Thanksgiving we –"

"Yeah, Mom, I'm sorry about that. Long story. But I'll be home tomorrow night – tell you all about it. Can you make up my bed?"

"Of course, honey. How much leave do you have?"

"Indefinite," Riley said firmly.

There was silence, then 'concerned mom' voice said, "Are you sure you're okay?"

"I've been discharged," Riley said, with only the merest hint of regret. "I've left the army."

Short silence.

"It's fine Mom. I asked to leave."

Then there was a man's voice in the background – Spike could just make it out.

"Is it that big useless son of mine?"

Spike mentally flinched on Riley's behalf, but Riley just chuckled and said, "Tell Dad, 'The Prodigal's returning.'"

This was relayed and greeted with a bark of laughter.

"And Mom. I'm bringing a friend along."

"I'll make up the guest room."

Spike feigned interest in the Room Service menu.

"You don't need to do that." Riley took a deep breath and – pronouncing each word clearly, so there could be no misunderstandings – said, "_He'll_ be sharing with me, if that's okay with you and Dad."

Another silence.

The woman at the other end of the line might be a hundred miles away, but Spike could almost hear the wheels turning in her head.

"Did your friend come from the base with you?" she probed gently.

"Yeah. Well, sort of."

It was true, strictly speaking, but Riley looked like he felt awkward, saying it.

"Is that why you left?" This was quiet; considered.

"Yes … No, actually, it wasn't. Well, only partly. It was more a trigger than a reason."

Spike felt a slight lifting of the guilt he'd been feeling.

Riley went on, "I don't want to get into it over the phone."

"I'm sure you know what's best," his mother said, taking the hint. The military never like it when you talk out of class. "But, you're okay?"

"I'm fine. Better than fine." He smiled at Spike. "How about you? Everyone okay there? Jess? 'Becca?"

"He asks about the dog before his niece," Riley's mom told his dad.

"And you're surprised?" he replied.

"Hey, is something wrong with 'Becca?" Riley said, suddenly concerned.

"Oh, you know 'Becca – same little firecracker. And don't worry, Jess is fine."

"Hey, how about Charlie? Do you still see him around the stables?"

"Yeah, Charlie still comes by every morning for his breakfast," Riley's mom said. "He's done pretty well considering."

"That's good."

"Well, what time should we expect you and your … friend?"

Spike thought her tone a little careful, but not by any means traumatised. Mothers had certainly changed quite a bit since his day.

"Probably around eleven. Hope that's not too late for you."

"Are you kidding me? I haven't seen you for so long, last week is too late, Riley. I can't wait to see you. Both of you!"

"Me neither, Mom. Goodnight then."

"Night, hon."

When Riley put the phone down, Spike asked – as casually as he could manage – "Who's this Charlie then? Stable-boy?"

Riley flicked a sly glance at him. "Jealous?"

"No!"

Spike's denial came out a little more vigorously than he'd meant it to. His cool was visibly ruffled. That wasn't on, so he took a moment to light up, sit down and put his feet on the coffee table. "Should I be?"

Riley smiled broadly then laughed. "Only if you get jealous of birdlife."

Spike took a drag, and blew smoke. "Depends what kind of birds."

"Okay, okay. He's a real bird, with feathers. A crow I found injured by the roadside last time I was home. Someone had taken a shot at him, but he was just winged. Mom and I looked after him. He can fly a bit, but he still sticks around the farm. He's kind of like a pet now."

Spike felt a muscle ticking in his jaw. What was it that Riley had said a few days ago? That his mom 'loved to take in strays'?

His eyes turned to stone.

"Bloody priceless," he said bitterly. He got up, pulled his coat on and strode, grim-faced, towards the door.

It was only the sound of Riley's anxious heart – pounding as though it were in his own chest – that stopped him walking out. He stood with his hand on the lever, pressing his forehead against the wood, and dragged in a breath, then turned abruptly and went out onto the balcony, without another word.

~~

Riley watched Spike's angry exit in stupefaction; it didn't take him long to figure out that he'd done something wrong. Now all he had to do was find out what; and how to patch things up.

Okay, so: another balcony scene.

As he went outside and stood next to his unpredictable Juliet, his breath steamed on the air. It was colder than the night before, but Spike stayed leaning over the railing, just smoking one cigarette after another, looking at the lights of the nearby town.

Finally, Riley put a hand on Spike's shoulder, but Spike shrugged it off.

"'m not your bleedin' charity case Riley, so if that's what you think …"

Spike's voice was weary – tired of the world and of himself in it.

"If you think I'm some hard-done-by carrion bird you need to nurse … well, maybe you're right at that, but you could have had the decency to keep it to yourself. It's not exactly flattering."

"No! Spike, that wasn't what –"

"Wanted to win me some sympathy from your Old Girl, is that it?" Spike's mouth twisted in humiliation. "Thought I wouldn't twig it as well – think I'm stupid …"

Riley didn't know what to say. Now he thought about it, he could see why Spike might jump to that conclusion, and maybe on some deeper level, Spike's situation had brought Charlie into his thoughts, but it wasn't something he would have dreamed of mentioning if he'd consciously made the connection.

"I'm sorry if I upset you, but you have to know – that's way too smart for me, Spike."

He ran a hand through his hair, annoyed with himself, and wishing he'd thought more carefully before phoning, rather than doing it on impulse – almost on a dare.

They were quiet for a while, letting the night air cool their overheated brains.

Neither of them wanted to waste what would be their last night alone together for some time. Neither of them could think what to say to fix it.

Spike rubbed a hand across his forehead. "Maybe this isn't such a good idea, Riley. Why don't you go on home, and I'll just get a motel, or find myself a crypt or something – meet up with you later, if you still want ... I don't want to intrude on –"

"Why?" Riley interrupted, exasperated. "You heard her. She was fine. She'll be fine, and so will my Dad. So long as we don't make a big deal about it, they won't either, I promise."

~~

So: he'd made a fuss over nothing: again. Cursing his fragile ego, Spike sniffed hard and stopped himself from dragging a telltale hand across his eyes. It was just the cold night breeze anyway: made your eyes water – Riley would know that.

"Yeah, I get that your folks are good people. I do. But intended or not, your lame duck metaphor isn't far from the truth. Guess that's what hurts."

He took a long last drag on his current death-stick, watching it burn down near his fingers.

"And what 'm I gonna do on a farm in the middle of a bloody cornfield? Sit watchin' telly all day?" He flicked the despairing fag end over the railing. "I'm a city boy, Riley. Farming's bad for my complexion. And I don't wanna just … leech off you and your family like –"

"Hey, cool it," Riley said, putting a hand over his on the balcony rail.

Spike closed his eyes and blew smoke out of his nose.

"There's plenty time to worry about the future and stuff like that," Riley said. "And for the record, I don't think you're a lame duck, or a leech."

Then Riley was trying to put those great Neanderthal-type arms around him – hug him or something – but Spike wasn't in the mood right now. Bad enough he was Riley's tame vampire; didn't need molly-coddling on top of it all. He pushed Riley away, and waited, on the alert for the next patronising word or gesture.

Riley spread his hands in frustration.

"Look, Spike. This is not meant to insult you, but you were just about running on empty when I met you, and you're not much better off now."

He put his hand on Spike again – just resting it lightly – and this time Spike let it lie there; pretended he hadn't noticed.

"You need time to get used to –"

"Bein' defenceless?" Spike supplied.

Riley shook his head dismissively.

"Bein' helpless?"

~~

Riley thumped the balcony rail with his fist. He had to talk Spike down from this ledge, because Spike wasn't a bird and it was a long way to fall.

"You know you're not helpless. But you need me right now, and God knows I need you. I'm not expecting you to earn your keep – pony up for gas. I've got plenty in the tank to take us where we're going. And I know that metaphor's way out-of-control, but you get my point. Don't you?"

But Spike was still sulking. "Don't want your charity." He scuffed a boot on the floor.

"It's not charity, Spike," Riley insisted.

"How d'you figure that then?" Spike said. "I need help, you're helpin' me. How's that not charity?"

"It's not! It's what people do … when they're in love." He pulled Spike's resisting frame towards him and looked searchingly into his eyes. "They help each other out. Don't tell me you don't know that. I hope you'll do the same for me when I need it."

Spike shook his head. "Don't see what bloody use I'm ever gonna be to you. Even when I'm on top of my game, I've got nothing to contribute."

He said it as though Riley were in some way to blame for it.

"All I've done for over a century is fight and fuck and make plans for world domination – all of which failed spectacularly, I might add. And that was before TV got invented. I dunno what I'm gonna do now … with my life. Can't just stay home – cook and make table decorations like some Stepford Vamp, can I?"

"You're all the decoration I need," Riley said, trying for sultry, and insinuating his body up against Spike's.

Spike smirked, despite himself. "Sweet talking fucker." He punched Riley on the arm.

Riley started to relax. This was fixable.

"Look, just stop worrying about stuff, okay? I'm not worrying. I'm gonna be a bit of a spare wheel myself when we get home, at least for a while. Dad's got all the labour he can use. But we don't have to decide anything now. Just take it as it comes, Spike. Give yourself a break."

"Riley, I'm a hundred and twenty-something years old. I think as far as career breaks go, that takes the biscuit."

What was Spike trying to prove? Riley had never had to deal with anyone so totally down on themselves. "Well, what did you do before … before you were turned?"

"I wrote bloody awful poetry, and got rejected by polite society. I was studying to be a barrister, but I wouldn't have been any good at that either." Spike turned away in self-disgust. "Too bloody wet."

"How do you know your poetry was awful?" Riley asked, clutching at straws.

"Everyone said it was. Even my old Mum, bless 'er. And I knew … in my heart I knew it was no good."

"Well, at least you must have been well-educated," Riley said, brightening. "Hey, how about home tutoring? English – or what about history? You've seen enough of it."

Spike looked at Riley as though he'd gone out of his mind. "Tutoring? What, _kids?_"

"Why not?"

"Oh, yeah, I can see it in the small ads." Spike cocked an eyebrow. "'Ageing mass-murderer and scribbler of doggerel seeks employment with children. Can only work during the hours of darkness.'"

Riley couldn't help laughing. "Well, maybe you should let someone else write your resume."

Spike shook his head. "You really think I can be trusted with kids?"

"Sure. I trust you, don't I? With my life." He looked seriously at Spike. "Soon, I'll be trusting you with my family's lives. And I know you'll be worthy of that trust. I have confidence in you. When are you goin' to get that?"

"That's what you think now," Spike said. "But what you're really trusting is the chip." He heaved a sigh. "You'll probably change your mind if I get it out."

Putting a hand over Spike's on the balcony rail, Riley corrected him, "_When we_ get it out –"

"Okay, _when we_ get it out," Spike conceded reluctantly.

"– when we get it out," Riley continued, trying to convince Spike with the power of belief. "I'll feel exactly the same way."

At last, Spike looked up at his face. "I won't let you down Finn. I won't ever harm you or any of your people." He dropped his eyes again. "Not makin' any promises about anyone else, mind, but if they belong to you, I'll defend 'em to the last drop of my blood."

"I know you will."

Riley thought he might be getting somewhere at last; but the mention of blood reminded him of something he'd been trying not to think about. Spike hadn't fed from him in days.

Since they'd been on the road, Riley had offered himself – offered his blood – every night, and every night Spike had patted him on the arm, and said, 'No need, mate. Plenty blood in the fridge', or, 'We should let that hand heal', and if Riley said 'take it from somewhere else then' Spike just found some other excuse.

Riley wasn't sure why he felt so bad about that. It was crazy to feel unwanted. The scratch marks on his chest and on his back should be proof enough against that. If only he had the will – the determination – to wait; to stop offering and leave it till Spike asked for it; but he couldn't do it.

Trembling slightly – knowing he was risking another rejection but unable to stop himself – he held the palm of his hand to Spike's lips. The healed bite marks began to ache and tingle with the proximity.

This time, Spike didn't make excuses or turn away. He inhaled sharply, his eyes half-closed. Riley watched the change come over Spike for the first time in days, and a charge thrilled through him. Spike tilted his head back. The fangs elongated and the ridges transformed him. The lion's tongue traced the line of the scar on Riley's hand, and the fangs scraped – tormenting – as Spike's unfathomable golden eyes met his own.

A moan rose from deep in Riley's chest. He wanted it badly; pleaded with his eyes, his throat too tight to do it with words. Spike was breathing heavily, and Riley prepared himself for the smooth slice of the canines into his palm, releasing his blood from veins and arteries – so limiting and confining; for the intoxicating rush as he shared his life with the other.

But Spike reared back and turned his head away.

Riley shrank back. He rubbed his hand on his jeans, and then thrust it into his pocket, out of the way, out of Spike's face. "It's okay Spike," he said, with a catch in his voice. "Guess now I'm almost off the drugs, maybe the pigs' blood tastes better than mine."

He turned to go back inside, unable – even for Spike's sake – to stop his shoulders from sagging or his head from dropping. He'd gone two strides when he felt arms round his waist, and Spike pressing against him, holding him tight.

"**_Better?_** God, Riley, no."

Spike's voice was gentle with concern, and suddenly Riley was shuddering uncontrollably, but Spike just held him, and held him, and didn't let go.

"How can you think that?"

Ashamed, Riley managed to say, "Dunno." It was almost a sob.

Spike laid his head against Riley's shoulder; held him for a moment longer until the shaking subsided, and then without letting go, eased round in front of him.

Riley looked up at the ceiling light so that Spike would be spared seeing his face; he knew it was a theatre mask of misery. But Spike didn't let him get way with it. Riley felt a hand on the back of his head and looked down to see Spike's features softened in distress, even though he was still wearing the face of the demon.

"Shhh … Riley, love. You give me so much … do everythin' for me."

Spike pulled Riley's hand from where it was hidden, and pressed his lips to Riley's palm like a pledge.

A cry escaped from Riley's throat as he felt the kiss of fangs against his scar, and he almost came.

"Didn't want you to think that was why I was staying with you," Spike said softly. "That I'd leave if you didn't let me feed from you. But if it's really what you want –"

"I want you," Riley said helplessly. "All of you." He didn't care that he sounded pathetic. He took a deep breath and let himself relax a little as Spike rubbed a hand up and down his back, soothing him.

Then Spike pulled away and took his hand again. "Come on, let's get you to bed." He tugged Riley towards the big double. "Need to do that tooth cleanin' thing of yours?"

Mutely, Riley shook his head.

"Come on then, mate." One-handed, Spike pulled back the covers as he pushed Riley down onto the bed. "I'm takin' care of things tonight."

~~


	4. Across the Threshold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spike meets the parents.

They arrived at the farm gates at around midnight. Spike was snoozing in the passenger seat, and Riley had been driving with one hand on the wheel and the other resting on Spike's thigh. He removed it to put on the parking brake, and Spike stirred, yawned, stretched, and said with faux innocence, "Are we there yet?"

"You've been asking me that ever since we set out," Riley said with a chuckle. "Until you exhausted yourself and gave me a break by falling asleep."

"Yeah, but, are we there yet?"

"See the lights down there?" Riley said, pointing to them. "That's our homestead."

Suddenly wide awake, Spike shifted uneasily. "Bloody hell," he muttered. His gaze flitted around the SUV like he was looking for an escape capsule. "They're gonna hate me, Riley."

Riley rolled his eyes. "We did this last night, didn't we? Why would they hate you?"

"What's not to hate?"

Riley shook his head. "You're not giving my folks much credit. You haven't even met them and already you assume they'll hate you?"

"Our survey says, 'most people do'." Spike rested his head against the window. "Your folks are gonna hate me, and then _you're_ gonna hate me for comin' between you and them …"

"So … what? You're gonna sit out here all night?" Riley sat back in his seat and folded his arms, prepared to wait him out.

"'Course not. Well, maybe." Spike mussed his hair in frustration. "I want to make a good impression, Riley, and I don't know how. Never had to try before." He looked himself up and down and sighed. "Can you … lend me something to wear that isn't black?"

"You're fine how you are," Riley assured him, and got out to open the gate. But when he got back in, to drive through it, Spike was as jumpy as a dog with fleas, tugging at his clothes as if pulling them about would change their colour or somehow make them more presentable.

"How about if I get you my denim jacket," Riley said. "Will that be okay? You can leave your real coat in the car for now – get them used to that later." As he was got out again to close the gate, he added, "When they're broken in."

"Not makin' things any easier," Spike called after him.

"Okay, okay." Riley opened the rear door, pulled a blue denim wrangler out of his rucksack and tossed it to Spike. "There," he said, getting back in the car. "Now you can pretend you're a perfectly normal … vampire!" He laughed and ducked a swipe. "Ready?"

Spike wriggled out of his coat and started shoving his arms into the jacket without leaving the car seat.

"Guess I'm as ready as I'll –"

But as his hands emerged from the ends of the sleeves, he stared at his fingernails in despair. "Er, Riley. I don't suppose you happen to have any nail varnish remover?"

~~

They drove the last quarter mile, pulling up just past a well-lit and substantial farm building, and next to what appeared to be a small barn.

"That was the original farmhouse," Riley supplied. "I'm thinking we could get it cleaned up – turned into a cabin for us. We'd have more privacy than in the main house."

So … Riley was planning on staying here; perhaps for good. Spike decided not to think about that decision – and how it had been made without any real input from him – until he'd seen the lay of the land.

It might be okay.

Any thing was possible.

No point shouting before he was hurt.

He helped Riley dig out the bags containing the bare essentials: clothes, Riley's guns, and supplies of blood in a couple of large thermos flasks. Then Riley hefted the bags and bounded up the steps and through the front door of the farmhouse, like a big golden retriever, just home from its walk.

Went in without thinking; leaving Spike on the porch, unable to enter.

"Er … Riley?"

But Riley had gone on through an inner door calling, "Mom! Dad! I'm home!" He seemed to have forgotten all about Spike.

On the off-chance that he just hadn't heard Riley invite him in, Spike tested the threshold; but there was an impenetrable barrier between where he stood on the darkened porch and the light and warmth inside.

Spike looked up at the sky. It was extremely cold: the kind of cold you used to get in the old days in London, before it snowed. He stamped his feet and waited; tried to look like he was just staying outside to admire the architecture.

He couldn't have been left waiting for more than a minute, but it was a long and humiliating sixty seconds. When he heard a woman's voice saying, "But where's your friend?" Spike silently blessed the slim, long-haired woman who appeared just ahead of Riley, in a doorway at the end of the hall.

She had that 'Joni Mitchell' look about her; Spike would have been willing to bet that she'd been at Woodstock. She came towards him extending a hand, and saying, "There you are. What are you waiting for? Come in out of the cold."

Right then Spike was heartily glad that she hadn't been the one he'd eaten. He took a step over the threshold, and reflexively rubbed his hand on his jeans before offering it to her. "Hello, Mrs. Finn."

She took his hand, shook it, then rubbed it between her own. "My, you're frozen!"

Spike just had time to exchange a glance with Riley before he felt Riley's mother pulling him warmly into a hug.

He submitted to this sudden familiarity, without really knowing what to make of it. Other people's mothers never hugged him. Mostly they ignored him; sometimes they threw stuff out of the window at him. One – another special one – had hit him over the head and made him hot chocolate.

He hung there in Mrs. Finn's grasp like a shirt on a coat-hanger.

At last, she released him, reproaching her son, "Riley, where are your manners? I don't even know your friend's name!"

"It's – William," Riley said tentatively.

But Spike had already made up his mind about Riley's mum. "My friends call me Spike," he said, smiling at her and dipping his head slightly.

"Well, then that's what I'll call you, because I'm sure we're going to be friends."

"I do hope so, Mrs. Finn."

The fear that went hand-in-hand with that hope must have showed, because Riley gave his arm a surreptitious squeeze.

Riley's mother grimaced. "Oh, please! Mrs Finn's _my_ mom.. Call me Sarah."

"Sarah, then," Spike corrected himself. "And thanks."

A broad man in his mid-fifties came out of a door to the right. "About time," he said gruffly to Riley, slapping him on the shoulder. "We missed you at Thanksgiving."

"Sorry Dad. Things at the base were a bit hectic. I forgot to book."

His dad raised his eyebrows. "Must have been darned hectic for you to forget a free feed."

Riley just laughed and moved aside. "Dad, this is Spike."

Spike felt himself quickly appraised. To his surprise, what he sensed from Riley's father wasn't anger or hostility, so much as relief. A hand was extended towards him.

"Josh."

Once again, Spike dipped his head slightly. "Pleased to meet you," he said. He reached out and shook Josh Finn's hand, trying for a handshake that was firm but wouldn't cause bruising.

"Want a beer, son?"

No one spoke.

It was only when the expectant silence became uncomfortable that Spike realised Josh hadn't been talking to Riley, but to him. He marvelled for a second at the oddity of being called 'son' by a man less than half his age. It didn't feel so bad. Then he remembered the question and brightened.

"Beer! Yes, thanks – I could do with one."

As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Spike cringed inwardly. Now Riley's dad must think he was an alcoholic.

But no: once again, the lessening of tension in the air was palpable.

Josh went to the kitchen, opened three bottles of beer and handed one each to Riley and Spike. Spike took a swig from the bottle, and Josh gave a slight involuntary nod of approval. Spike felt that Riley too, was relaxing. Maybe this palaver wasn't quite so difficult after all.

Riley looked across the hall at him and smiled encouragingly. "Spike, I'm just gonna help Mom get the room sorted out, unpack, get caught up, you know how it is."

Spike flashed him with a look of naked panic, but Riley just smiled back in that easy way of his, and left him alone in the hall: with Josh Finn.

"Well then," Josh said. "Are we gonna hang around here like a couple of spare pricks at a wedding, or shall we go slouch in front of the TV like civilised men?"

Spike gestured with his bottle towards what the sound of a sports commentator over a background of cheering crowds told him was the living room. "TV. Absolutely."

He grimaced at his use of a word with four syllables, but it seemed to pass under the radar.

The lounge or sitting room – whatever you called it in this neck of the woods – was unassuming; not particularly tidy. There was a log fire at one end, with a rag rug in front of it. Spike was beginning to feel less intimidated. He slumped down on one of the low chairs. When he realised he was holding the beer bottle defensively between his thighs, he planted it on the wooden floor by the leg of the chair with a decisive thump, and turned his attention to the screen.

"So, Spike. What do you do?"

Spike nearly kicked the bottle over. 'What do you do?' was probably the standard question a man asks his son's new boyfriend, but Spike was completely unprepared. He sat up at attention again, thinking furiously, to little effect.

"I'm … a writer. Not a very good one I'm afraid. Nothing published yet."

Jesus H. Christ! Could he have thought of anything _less_ likely to make a good impression on the bloke? Might just as well have gone with, 'I'm the degenerate freeloader who'll be taking your son for everything he's got.'

"Supported myself any way I could over the years …"

Spike didn't even dare look at Josh; just stared fixedly at the TV as he desperately scanned his memory for something – anything he'd ever done – that bore the slightest resemblance to work of any kind. The last thing he'd done that had made him any money was hustle pool.

"… bar-work, that sort of thing. Filled in with bits of …"

Visions of his efforts to re-assemble The Judge, and to find the Gem of Amarra came to his rescue.

"… historical research … working on an archaeological dig …"

Bloody hell, that was gilding the lily a bit, wasn't it? Then he had an inspiration.

"Had to do whatever I could to make ends meet. Most of my life I was looking after a family member who was …" Spike flailed for a fitting description of Drusilla's condition. "Not all there."

"Oh. I'm sorry to hear it."

Josh sounded genuinely concerned. With any luck, he'd attributed Spike's awkwardness to his tragic family history.

"How are they now?"

"Oh …" Struggling to divert the conversation, Spike allowed the only answer he could think of to tumble unconsidered from his lips. "Well, she's dead. Now."

Seeing Josh's look of acute embarrassment, Spike volunteered a platitude. "She was very old – it was probably for the best."

They stared in shared discomfort at the TV screen, where South American footballers were tugging at each other's shirts as the referee tried to gain control.

Then both of them started talking at once.

"Is this a live game?"

"You don't go out in the sun much, do you?"

Spike was ready for this one now. "Bit of a night owl. Done a lot of shift work because of the … well, you know …"

Josh was looking embarrassed again, so he added, "Plus, I haven't been able to get about much lately – had some broken ribs, so I've been laid up."

"Broken ribs eh?" Josh said, evidently relieved to be on firmer ground. "Had a few of those myself, fallin' off of horses and out of haylofts. How'd you get yours?"

Spike smiled ruefully. "Got into a bit of a scrap."

"Did you win?" Josh asked, looking determinedly at the screen.

Spike considered carefully and said, "Not this one."

"Fighter, eh?"

This didn't seem to be a bad thing in Josh Finn's book – in fact his tone had become positively cheerful – but Spike hedged. "Well, I'm trying to give it up."

"Don't try on my account," Josh said. "To be frank with you, Spike – if I may – I'm just relieved you won't be prancin' around the house in high heels like those lady-boys we used to … see when we were in Saigon, on R &amp; R."

Spike smiled quietly. Had to give the bloke credit for honesty. "Not if I can help it. I hear stilettos play havoc with your back."

Josh snorted. "Wasn't _your back_ I was worried about."

Spike raised an eyebrow.

They took a swig from their bottles in manly solidarity.

"So. You were in Vietnam?"

"Sure, for my sins. Came back whole. More'n I can say for most."

"Interesting times. Kissinger had brass ones. Wouldn't have liked to get on the wrong side of him."

Josh looked closely at Spike. "Guess you're older than you look."

"Somewhat."

They drank in silence, letting the TV take up the slack.

Spike bit the bullet: again. "I suppose this has come as a bit of a shock. Probably think Riley deserves better."

Josh didn't rush to deny this, so Spike went on, "Matter of fact, so do I. Don't know what he sees in me to be honest."

Josh gave him a penetrating stare. "We taught my son … all my kids … to respect people's differences. But I never saw this coming, and that's a fact."

"Daresay you didn't." Spike took a drink, draining the bottle. "Took _us_ a bit by surprise, tell the truth."

Josh grunted. "If it's what he wants … well, I trust his judgement. I didn't raise him to be a fool, nor not to know his own mind. Can't complain if he knows it and uses it."

He drained his own beer and put the bottle down carefully.

"What worries me, Spike – and I hope you won't mind my speaking plainly – is this, and only this. Never mind about what I want or what I don't want. Both my other boys already started families, so I have grandchildren, and I'll no doubt have more. But what if Riley wants kids of his own? Maybe he doesn't think about it now, but later on ..."

Spike hadn't even considered it, and that shocked him. What was wrong with him? Suddenly it concerned him greatly. "Maybe he … we could adopt. Or maybe there's another way, surrogacy or ..."

It didn't sound very convincing to either of them, but Josh waited for Spike to go on, which he did – nervously at first, but gaining confidence as he went.

"I won't stop Riley doing what he wants. Couldn't, even if I wanted to. I'm not his keeper." He looked down at the empty bottle in his hand. "But I'm in for the long haul Mr. Finn. He needs something, I'll try and see he gets it. Whatever it takes, I'll do it." He looked Josh in the eye, his jaw set. "I won't give him up easily."

Josh nodded; and if he noted the hint of steel in his son's new partner's voice, and in his eyes, he didn't seem to mind too much. "You're an honest man," he said. "I like that."

"I'm told it's one of my faults."

Josh snorted. "So, you're English, right?"

"Ye…ah."

"Well, I'd be most obliged if you'd do two things. First up – call me Josh. Second – explain one thing to me. This offside rule ..."

Spike grinned.


	5. First Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spike spends his first night at the farm.

Spike now had the coffee table set out with a varied selection of items to assist in his explanation of the vexed question of the offside rule; the exposition was in an advanced stage: critical appreciation.

"– so the rule's almost impossible to enforce with any degree of consistency, 'cos unless the ball is only played forward a very short distance, there's no way that the poor old linesman here –"

He picked up an empty beer bottle from the edge of their makeshift field of play, and waggled it about.

"– can have the attacking player who kicks the ball forward –"

An ashtray.

"– _and_ the receiving player, _and_ the last defender –"

A small screwdriver, and a knob from an unidentified piece of farm equipment.

"– in his field of accurate vision at the same –"

"Dad, Spike," Riley cut in as he peered round the door.

They turned towards him.

"I'm beat. I'm gonna hit the sack."

Spike looked from father to son like a rabbit on a motorway. Should he stay or go? What was expected? Was it appallingly unsubtle for both of them to go to bed at the same time? Or would it look weird if they didn't?

Josh must have noticed his discomfort, because he turned back to the TV screen with a helpful, "Don't mind me, I'll watch the end of the game. Maybe understand it a bit better now."

Spike got up and started backing out of the room. "Well, I'll say goodnight then." He paused. "And, thanks. For letting me stay."

"This is Riley's home," Sarah said, coming into the room. "Any friend of Riley's is always welcome."

"Night then, Mrs … Sarah. Josh."

"Night Mom, Dad," Riley said.

Then Riley led the way down the hall to his bedroom.

Their bedroom.

~~

Spike felt as awkward as a kid joining a new school in the middle of term. He followed Riley through the bedroom door, and stood just inside the doorway, wondering what to do next.

In the absence of any hints from Riley – who just moved a couple of bags aside, sat down on the bed and began removing his boots – Spike began to wander around the room, investigating his new surroundings.

There was a single small window; he peered through the curtains into the blackness outside. It had been pitch dark when they arrived, so he didn't know what he'd expected to see.

He resumed his perambulations.

A substantial chest of drawers against one wall attracted his attention, and – without thinking – Spike pulled open the top drawer. Confronted with a selection of Riley's socks, he quickly shut it again; wasn't his stuff, after all.

"It's okay Spike," Riley said. "Go right ahead. Look at anything you want. I don't have any secrets – in my sock drawer or anywhere else, not from you."

Spike glanced quickly at him, and grunted, "Huh."

"I'll sort out some storage for you tomorrow."

"Thanks."

Not that he had anything much to store.

Spike looked at the pictures on the walls – two oil paintings. One was a landscape of quiet misty hillsides with a few cattle, possibly in Scotland; the other showed two galleons in a fire-fight.

On another wall, there was a shelf full of sports trophies. Spike had never won anything in his life, apart from fights, and games of pool or kitten poker. They didn't award trophies for the kinds of things he was good at. He wondered how it felt to have won these bits of silverware: got them by right instead of just swiping them.

"You okay?" Riley said. "My Dad didn't give you a hard time, did he?"

"No, he was … fine. It was … pretty terrifying actually, but I think I passed muster."

Spike sat down on the edge of the wooden-framed bed, gazing ahead of him, his eyes as unfocussed as his brain.

"It's late," Riley said. "I'll leave unloading the car until tomorrow."

Spike didn't reply, and Riley looked earnestly at him. "Are you sure you're alright? We've had a long day. Let me go and warm some blood for you."

"No!" Spike was shocked out of his daze. "What would your mum think?"

"You have to eat sometime," Riley said, sounding worried. "I can be covert about it." He flashed Spike a half-smile.

Spike just shook his head and picked at a thread in the quilt; it was suddenly absorbing his whole attention.

"Sure?" Riley pressed him.

"Tomorrow," Spike said. "Tomorrow'll be fine. I'm not hungry."

Spike felt Riley's puzzled gaze upon him for what seemed like a long time. At last, Riley said, "I'm going to the bathroom. I'll only be across the hall."

It was what Spike had been waiting for him to do. For no rational reason he could fathom, he didn't feel like getting undressed in front of Riley – not tonight. When Riley pulled the door closed behind him, Spike quickly stripped and pulled the bedcovers back.

Riley had laid a towel in the bed.

Spike lay down on his side, facing the wall – waiting. A few minutes later, Riley came back and slipped in beside him, and Spike kept still and quiet, hoping Riley would think he was already asleep. He heard a rustling noise; Riley was finding his place in the book he'd been reading, so he thought his ploy had worked.

But he must have been lying unnaturally still, because a little while later, he felt a tug on his shoulder. The game was up. He rolled over, and lay facing Riley. Neither of them spoke for a while; both were trying to figure out the same thing.

Riley ran a hand down the side of Spike's face. "What's wrong, Spike? Are you mad at me because I left you alone with my Dad?"

"No," Spike said, though he let a hint of reproach to colour his voice. "I've forgiven you for that."

"What then?"

This was hard. Harder than anything Spike could remember doing before. He'd faced demons of all kinds, Slayers, mad scientists, his crazed sire, and Victorian society, but nothing had been as terrifying as what he was facing now.

"It's just – I don't know if I can do this, Riley."

"Do what?"

"Be like this. Be with … normal people." Spike swallowed. "Your Mum – so nice and all. And your Dad, he's a not a bad bloke." He took a deep breath. "I feel such a fraud. I don't belong."

"Sssh. You just got here. Give it time. You'll belong. You belong anywhere I am."

"I'm gonna let them down – let you down, I know it. It's easy when people hate you – you just fight or run away, and hate 'em right back. But when you need them to like you – that's when things get –"

Riley leaned over and kissed him softly on the mouth. Spike parted his lips, but Riley didn't take advantage – didn't press – just carried on kissing, as though it was all he ever needed or wanted to do.

Spike closed his eyes, trying to keep it together.

The calluses of the past hundred and twenty years were being stripped away, leaving him as naked as a hermit crab without a shell; but now, it wasn't Cecily's scorn or the laughter of his peers that he feared; it was the kindness he'd done nothing to earn. It seemed like that could be just as terrifying, and just as abrasive as mockery: burning off the last of the protection he'd built around himself.

He kept feeling this must all be a cruel joke at his expense; that when the last of his resistance was gone, and he relaxed with these nice people, they'd sprout horns and talons; or worse, they'd realise what a monster _he_ was and then it would all be over.

He broke away from Riley for a moment and studied his face, checking for signs of disappointment or betrayal. He found none.

Another deep breath.

And now Riley was kissing him again; touching his ribs, his hip, through the sheet at first, and then under it.

Spike drew his head back. "Jesus, Finn, your parents …"

Riley just smiled. "They're grown-ups, Spike. They've done this too." He did a double-take. "Well, not _this_ exactly, but the principle's the same."

"But –"

"We'll just have to keep it quiet." He kissed Spike on the forehead. "And try not to swear, or take the Lord's name in vain, okay?"

Spike nodded, wide-eyed. "I'll try," he said. After all, this was Riley's place; offending Riley's parents was the last thing he wanted to do, so he was determined to try and stick to the rules.

"Just relax," Riley said.

Spike didn't know what he was afraid of. If Riley thought it was okay, who was he to argue?

So Spike submitted, and Riley showed him no mercy: kissing, stroking, squeezing; taking careful inventory of what was his. Riley's lips and hands were everywhere, seeking out all the sensitive places no one else had ever cared to find: both wrists; his fingertips; the nape of his neck; the line down the centre of his chest; behind his knees and under the arch of his foot – Holy Christ, even his armpits, even there …

Riley must be on a mission to cover every square inch of him with kisses and caresses; to claim him and to own him; to convince him that every part of him was treasured.

Spike's throat grew sore from choking back moans and curses, as sensations loaded one upon another until he thought he might pass out – forbidden as he was to cry out his ecstasy. Love and warmth, like he'd never dared hope for, flowed over him like clover honey, filling all his senses with golden light.

He'd roundly mocked that song the stupid bint had sung as she pranced around the stage in her wedding dress; '"Like a Virgin" my arse' had been his exact words. But that was how he felt, now, this night under Riley's parents' roof.

Spike looked down through half-closed eyes, watching the slight movements of Riley's head between his thighs. He caught his breath as Riley teased the soft skin behind his balls with tongue and teeth. He jerked under Riley's hands as they stroked his cock to aching hardness. He rocked mindlessly into Riley's every touch, the pressure rising behind the dam of silence.

So close, so close, but the lights were still on and the bedroom door was unlocked, someone might –

"Riley … Oh fu-"

A firm hand prevented Spike's release, and Riley's finger on his lips cut off the curse.

"Uh-uh."

The mild reprimand was swiftly followed by a punishing thumb, teasing the head of Spike's cock. His whole body rigid with need, Spike bit down with blunt teeth on Riley's offered palm. He heard Riley give a small gasp, then he dropped fangs: sank them into Riley's palm, and brought Riley to a jerking, stuttering, climax between his thighs.

Riley moaned softly, rubbing himself off against the towel but not releasing Spike's gaze or his erection; the look on Riley's face as he came would have been enough to send Spike over the edge, but that Riley didn't allow it.

Even when Riley was done – when the last shivers had subsided – he still looked ready to consume Spike whole. Spike felt himself spread wide and his cock taken between soft lips and his balls held and rolled between soft hands, one of them now slick with Riley's blood.

He made no sound when Riley let him fly at last, tasting blood in keeping his silence as he was swept and rolled by an orgasm so intense, pulsing through him wave on wave, it threatened to last till the end of winter.

Riley hauled himself weakly up Spike's body and lay atop him, and they kissed with quiet ferocity, Riley fearlessly lapping some of the blood from Spike's cut lip, and Spike gazing on him with wide, wondering, slotted eyes.

Snow fell softly around the farmhouse as they slept.

~~


	6. Settling In

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spike spends his first week on the farm.

The next morning they were woken at around ten, by a knock on the door. Sarah came in without waiting for an answer, bearing mugs of coffee, and Spike, on the side of the bed furthest from the door, hastily pulled the sheet up as far as his shoulders. When Sarah came round to put his mug on the nightstand, he kept his eyes averted from hers.

Sarah looked at Riley, covertly signalling, 'Is he okay?' with her eyebrows.

Riley just shook his head, smiled and shrugged.

She left, saying over her shoulder, "You only get maid service on the first day, boys. Don't get used to it."

~~

Well, that was ... nice, but oddly embarrassing.

By now, Spike should have been used to the sight of Riley leaping out of bed and doing twenty press-ups as soon as they woke up, but he didn't think he'd ever tire of it. Taking pains not to spill coffee on the quilt, he watched the performance with a slight smile touching his lips.

"… nineteen, twenty."

Riley bounded to his feet, and peered carefully through a gap between the curtains. Then he opened them wide and beckoned Spike over.

"Hey, come and see! It's snowing!"

Having seen the snows of over a hundred winters, Spike's instinctive reaction would have been, 'And?' or on a bad day, 'It's winter, you moron!' But Riley was such a pup, there was no way Spike wasn't going to indulge him. He scrambled out of bed, dragging his jeans on as he went to the window.

Riley wasn't fibbing; the cold of the last few days had finally borne fruit. Looking out at the white-scape, Spike couldn't help feeling a kind of innocence descend upon him along with the falling flakes of snow.

It was completely overcast, and not just California overcast. This Iowa sky was heavy with clouds, piling up to the stratosphere.

"You wanna?" Riley said hopefully.

Oh well. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.

"Right then," Spike said. "Snowball fight, outside, two minutes. And no puttin' rocks in the middle!"

~~

Ten minutes later, when Spike was just starting to feel a warning tingle beneath his skin, they both fell back inside, exhausted, breathless – or doing a good simulation of it – and trampling melting snow into the hall.

"Boots off!" Sarah shouted from where she had been watching through the kitchen window.

She was instantly obeyed.

Josh tramped in after them from checking on the stock.

Riley smiled. Now both of his parents would be able to recall having seen Spike out of doors in daylight; that might head off awkward questions. It was all part of the plan.

~~

Spike had plans of his own. When he heard Sarah call out, "And get those wet clothes off, or you'll catch cold!" he replied "Yes Mum!" in his most obedient voice.

It was exactly what he'd been intending to do in any case, but not for health reasons. He and Riley rough-and-tumbled each other down the hall, and Spike pressed Riley through their bedroom door, licking snowflakes from the Kid's eyelashes and brushing back the damp locks of hair that were flopping over his forehead.

"Don't want to hide that pretty face, do we?" he murmured, kissing Riley's frozen lips with his own.

Riley broke off the kiss to protest, "You're trying to make me as cold as you are."

"No." Spike caught Riley's lower lip between his teeth, and rubbed up against him like a cat. "I'm trying to make me as warm as you."

"Never happen."

"No," Spike said, his head on one side. "It never will, will it? But I'll keep trying."

~~

Sarah smiled to herself as she rolled pastry.

~~

On the second day, Spike was coming out of their bedroom, heading for the kitchen, just as Sarah came out of the bathroom. She was wrapped only in a towel – well, two, counting the one turbaned on her head.

Spike looked away, and began a retreat into the bedroom, but Sarah just shook her head. "Hey, Spike," she said. "No need to run and hide. You're one of us now."

Spike hadn't thought it possible that he might like her more than he did already, but as she went down the hall towards the main bedroom, she called back over her shoulder, "Better get used to it! You'll see a lot more than this when the sun comes out."

~~

They spent the next few days fitting out the old farmhouse. Riley's dad had been happy to let them take it over, as long as they did the work. There was already a sink, with a water supply, and they soon had a boiler installed. With Riley doing most of the cleaning and clearing, and Spike taking care of the electrical work, and doing the odd bit of painting, it wasn't long till they had the place looking comfortable.

It was homey: not in the chintzy way Clem's cave had been homey, but it had everything they needed short-term. Spike would be able to stay there all day if he wanted, without running out of essentials. They brought in a TV, a microwave, and a fridge which was soon stocked with beer, pig's blood and bourbon.

It was close enough to the farmhouse that Spike could easily get between the buildings safely, even on a bright day, and he found – to his surprise – that he liked spending time in the main house. The extent of the roof was such that direct sun never posed a threat, and he would mostly hang about in the kitchen, taking what opportunities presented, much as he always had; learning how the family functioned; learning the names and foibles of relatives he hadn't yet met, from the casual conversation around the breakfast table; finding ways of connecting with people who seemed at the same time younger and so much older than himself.

Dipping his finger in the cake mix, with Sarah saying – "Hey!" – as though she had eyes in the back of her head.

Spike would squint at it when she wasn't looking, just to make sure.

'Cos you never knew.

~~

Towards the end of the week, Sarah cornered her son, and said, "Spike's not ill is he?"

"No, he's fine," Riley assured her.

"Only, I don't want to pry, but he seems so thin, and he eats like a bird."

Riley laughed. He'd been waiting, either for a question about Spike's diet, or for covert and inconvenient attempts to 'fatten up' their guest. No, not 'guest', Riley corrected himself. Spike was here to stay.

"He's not ill, and he's not anorexic, in case that was what you were thinking, Mom. He just has some … special dietary requirements. Kind of, deficiency problems, plus a few allergies. He doesn't want you to cook anything special."

"It's no trouble. If you give me a list of what he needs and what he can't eat –"

"No. Thanks all the same, but he's kind-of embarrassed about it. We're taking care of it. Usin' the microwave."

She grunted. "He's not allergic to cake mix."

~~

Those nights they spent in the main house, Riley must have sensed how Spike was feeling: newly vulnerable and a bit afraid. So they made out like teenagers, rubbing off, or sucking each other off; moaning softly and biting down on each other's hands as they fisted their cocks – singly and together; watching each other's hands and faces with shining eyes; waiting, and making each other wait.

Spike had a hard time with the injunction Riley had laid upon him not to swear. Hushed cries and gasps were mangled along the way, and reduced them to fits of muffled laughter, as 'golly', 'gee-wiz', and 'fu … iddlesticks' replaced their usual curse words of choice.

That was until the third morning, when Spike heard a clatter as Sarah dropped a tray of cookies on the floor: upon which disastrous event, a string of such blasphemous expletives issued forth from Sarah's lips as would have made a cavalryman blush, and cover his horse's ears.

Spike frowned at Riley. "But you told me …"

Riley raised both hands and backed away mouthing – 'Busted!' – then ran for cover, with Spike in hot and silent pursuit.

~~

After a week, the cabin was almost ready.

With a wry smile on his face, Josh watched them moving some of Riley's gear the few feet from the main house to the cabin. "About time you went out to see the world and seek your fortune," he said. "You know, cut the apron strings."

Riley grinned back.

But short distance away though it was, Spike kept finding reasons not to make the final move. His concerns ranged from the reasonable to the bizarre. He said it might not be warm enough or that they might find that the roof was unsound when the snows cleared; he complained that the cabin didn't have a door knocker; he even claimed to be worried that the place might be haunted.

When Riley had reassured him on every point he seemed able to devise, Spike just said, "Well, that's alright then," and reluctantly moved his stuff – what little he had accumulated.

They spent a couple of hours clearing out the tools and painting gear, then they moved Riley's furniture in: drawers, a wardrobe, nightstands, chairs … the bed.

~~

To Spike's eyes, the cabin was starting to look crushingly small. He didn't know how a whole family could possibly have lived there. Wasn't sure he could either, but there was no going back now.

He was being ridiculous anyway; he and Dru had shared smaller places than this. He could happily have shared a coffin with her.

But with Riley, it was different. Riley, with his big … well, everything. While they'd been living in hotels there'd always been the driving during the night, or on cloudy days; the feeling of moving on – being able to end up anywhere.

Not that Spike wanted to take off on his own. Wherever he went, he wanted Riley with him, and he couldn't pretend he'd had any other destination in mind. But they were here now, apparently to stay, and he hadn't even been asked whether that was okay.

Suddenly, an isolated house in the middle of nowhere seemed more claustrophobic than the water closet at his mum's old town house.

And Riley – hadn't put a foot wrong. He was attentive in the simple things, like driving into town whenever Spike needed anything: blood, fags, 2000 AD; he usually went without being asked. But perversely, Riley's obvious concern for Spike's welfare just made him feel more trapped. He was on Riley's turf now, and like it or not, Riley was calling the shots.

He could almost feel the bars of the gilded cage pressing in upon him.

~~

For his part, Riley had a feeling that he'd done something to upset Spike, but he had no idea what it was. All morning, he tried to get Spike alone; when he finally succeeded, all Spike would say was, "Nothin's wrong. Everythin's peachy."

By the time Riley got as far as, "So, why –?" Spike had already left the room. Then there was more awkwardness and avoidance.

At lunchtime they had a beer or two, and it seemed to flip a switch in Spike's head. He spent the afternoon alternately needling Riley in front of his parents, and flirting covertly with him; giving him such smoking looks that Riley had to avert his eyes. Then Spike would be brushing up against him; touching him when Sarah and Josh weren't looking, cornering him in the hallway and pressing against him, then moving on before Riley had time to respond, or if he did, pushing him gently back and away, as though Riley had visited his attentions on him unasked-for.

By mid-afternoon, Riley was half-expecting to spontaneously combust.

He tried to get Spike to come to the cabin, but Spike made excuses: it was un-diplomatic to retire during the day, or he was helping Sarah, or he was watching some crap on TV.

The only thing keeping Riley sane was the knowledge that Spike had little choice if he was going to get any sleep, because they'd already moved the bed.

To keep his hands occupied, Riley went and built a good fire in their new home. He hardly noticed the extra heat himself because he felt like he was burning up already, but he knew Spike would appreciate it, so he went to try and track him down.

Finding only his mom in the kitchen, he asked her whether she thought Spike was acting weird.

All she would offer – with an enigmatic smile on her lips – was, "Maybe it's his time of the month."

Well, that was less than helpful. Did it even mean anything?

Maybe she was trying to tell him to be especially tolerant if Spike seemed irrational or over-emotional.

Like he needed telling.

He helped himself to another beer.

It was getting dark outside. Riley went out for a walk around the yard and the stables, half-hoping to find Spike, or that Spike might come looking for him there. But neither of those things happened.

Riley leaned over the edge of one of the looseboxes, inhaling the familiar scents of warm horses and hay and leather tack. The Lieutenant – a big grey, and his favourite – came over and bumped Riley's arm with his nose, and Riley held the horse's head and pressed his own nose up against it.

When he'd regained some equilibrium, he went back to the cabin.

Spike was still noticeable only by his absence.

Riley sighed and banked up the fire again.

Mid-evening, he found Spike in the living room, drinking, and watching TV with his dad.

Watching 'Spartacus'.

It had just started.

Riley slumped down in the spare easy chair, chewing on a quick to relieve the tension. "Gonna watch the whole damn thing, Spike?"

"Course. It's a classic."

"You've seen it before, right?"

"Never get tired of this film," Spike said, staring obstinately at the screen.

Riley shook his head, and got another beer before settling down again.

After a while, Spike began shooting irritated glances in his direction. He seemed to be glaring at Riley's hands. Eventually Riley realised that he was tapping a staccato rhythm on the beer bottle with his fingernails.

"Sorry," he said.

Spike snorted. For a while he just looked plain uncomfortable. Then he was frowning in Riley's direction again, this time at his foot.

Riley immediately stopped tapping it on the floor.

Halfway through the film, his dad looked over at him and asked if he had ants in his pants, then looked away, grinning.

Was it his fault if these old chairs creaked every time you tried to get comfortable?

It was midnight by the time the film finished, but Spike still kept finding reasons to stay up; he felt like a cup of tea; he wanted to see the news; he had to say goodnight to Sarah.

Spike and Sarah hugged warmly, while Riley hung around waiting by the door. His mother held onto Spike for longer than usual, as though there was some understanding between them: something Riley wasn't in on, that was for sure. He felt jealous. He wasn't sure which of them the emotion attached to.

By the time he and Spike left the main house, Josh was yawning conspicuously, and Sarah was telling them to get along out of the way.

~~

Josh and Sarah smiled as they watched them go.

It was going to be a relief that the intense silence of the last few nights – the sound of people trying their hardest to make no noise – was over.

They had privately wondered whether Riley would ever find a soul-mate. He was a late-developer by their family's standards. Both his elder and younger brothers had married before they reached their mid-twenties, but Riley had never even been caught with a girl in his room. When he did have a sweetheart, Sarah had the sense that her son was a little too chivalrous for his own good. But neither could say his choice of partner wasn't a surprise.

An Englishman.

Well, it took all kinds.

You had to get your happiness where you could.

~~

Riley closed the door firmly behind them. Still feeling Spike's resistance, and sensing there was something he wasn't getting, or that things were slightly off, he gave Spike a gentle shove towards the cabin.

Now Spike was walking backwards, pushing back, taunting him with mean eyes and sensuous mouth, and hands that seemed to burn wherever they touched. Riley thought he'd cooled off, but he quickly fired-up anew under Spike's goading.

Spike backed off the path, slid away from the cabin doorway, and leaned against the wall, and Riley grasped him by both wrists and held them above his head, pressing up against him, letting Spike feel how hard he was for him; how much he wanted him.

Spike gasped and parted his lips, and Riley just kissed his eyes and rubbed up against him some more, before pushing him through the cabin doorway in a way that didn't take 'no' for an answer.

It came to him – as it had once before – that whatever he wanted to do to Spike, he could; there wasn't a damn thing Spike could do about it. He wasn't proud of the way that made him grip Spike's upper arms more forcefully as he pulled him in and took his mouth at last – that beautiful mouth that had been tormenting him all day; kissed him, hard and hungry.

The fire crackled; a log collapsed in a shower of sparks.

~~

Spike felt a thrill run through him. He closed his eyes. He hadn't let the demon out since the first night, though it had been itching under his skin: today more than ever. Now it blazed forth, his fangs cutting Riley's lip.

Riley bit him in return, blunt teeth mauling as he thrust his thigh between Spike's and hooked a foot behind his ankle.

Tripped him: deliberately.

Spike huffed out an astonished breath as his feet slipped from under him, but Riley – still gripping his arms – didn't let him fall so much as go down in a slow, undignified sprawl on the wooden floor in front of the fire.

Warning bells rang in Spike's head. He was being toyed with. Riley was looming over him. He snarled and shuffled backwards.

Panting, Riley threw off his shirt and knelt on the floor between Spike's feet. "Finished playing games with me yet, Spike?" he demanded.

That was a truce Riley was offering; but there must have been some devil sitting on Spike's shoulder, because he heard himself saying – "Finished? Haven't even started playin' yet, Finn."

He shot Riley a look of challenge, daring him to do whatever it was he had planned, though there was sod all he could do about anything.

"Let's see how _you_ like being tormented for hours," Riley said; his voice was low and full of promise.

~~

Spike was still crabbing back towards the foot of the bed, and Riley's heart was pounding painfully as he advanced on Spike, caught his left wrist and secured it to the footboard with a short length of rope he'd seen lying nearby.

"Never any shortage of this stuff on a farm," he said.

Wide-eyed, Spike batted uselessly at him with his free hand; Riley ignored him; it was all part of the game. He caught Spike's right hand in his left, as though they were about to dance, and moved in to kiss Spike on the jaw-line and on the throat. Then he secured the other wrist with a handy cable-tie.

Spike's arms spread wide in crucifixion, he jerked uselessly against his bonds, unable to get any leverage from his position, seated on the floor at the end of the bed.

"Comfortable?" Riley said.

Getting only a growl in response, Riley fetched a pillow, lifted Spike's knees, and put the pillow under his ass. Spike snapped his jaws at him, but Riley stayed out of reach of those.

He ran a proprietary hand over Spike; tested him through his jeans to see if he was ready.

He was.

Spike's head rolled back; he sucked in a breath.

He was more than ready.

Spike's prick was hard as granite.

Spike shifted, panting. Riley unbuttoned Spike's jeans; Spike stilled, and Riley stooped, and took him into his mouth, then, as though it wasn't worth his time, let him slip almost all the way out again, drawing a strangled moan from Spike's throat. He scraped the head of Spike's cock with his teeth – once, twice – and Spike arched off the floor.

Then Riley sat back on his haunches, contemplating the view – the slitted pupils of the demon's golden eyes, blown wide with lust, and a little fear; Spike's glistening erection, hard and exposed in the flickering light. He rubbed his hands on his thighs, licked his lips and yanked Spike's jeans down as far as his knees.

Spike's hips jerked, his thighs clenching with anticipation. Riley slipped a hand between them, stroking and scratching there; running the pads of his fingers softly over Spike's hole, his balls and the soft furrow in between, and Spike thrust upwards and came, helpless, and gasping, "You fu…"

But the obscenity was lost in a moaning cry as Riley took him in hand and milked him of every last drop.

~~

As he lay, limp and weak in his bonds, Spike looked up at Riley through his lashes; he was a little shocked; embarrassed at having been so easy to bring off, and – though he tried not to show it – acutely troubled at the reaction his skittishness had provoked.

"Sorry for bein' such a cunt all day," he said. He shook off the demon. "Dunno what come over me." He glanced ruefully at his spunk-spattered shirt.

"Better make it up to me then," Riley said, ignoring the invitation to break the tension with a joke. "I could be persuaded to forgive you."

Spike had expected Riley to free him, but the only thing Riley released was his own hard length from his jeans. Spike swallowed, wondering whether he should be aroused or fearful. They'd often gone together in the past, but not with Riley. Riley hadn't been much for games so far. Now, all of a sudden, he wanted to play without reading the rule book.

Riley knelt close to where Spike's head rested against the footboard.

Spike bit his lip then offered his mouth, and Riley gave him just the head of his dick, and though Spike wanted more – reached for more, pulling against the ties – Riley wouldn't give him any more.

Spike's mouth felt raw and tender from wanting to be filled; wanting to feel Riley's cock rub across the ridges of the roof of his mouth and press against the back of his throat; wanting to feel the weight and pulse of it on his tongue and open his throat and let Riley shoot deep into him – but Riley wasn't going to do that.

Riley was just going to look down on him with a chilling calm, as he tended to himself with one hand, and touched Spike gently about the face with other. He trailed fingertips across Spike's eyelids and lashes; brushed Spike's cheeks with his knuckles; chucked under his chin; ran his finger across the sword scar; teased Spike's lips with his thumb until Spike was panting and his eyes were bright as diamonds.

Desperate to win back Riley's approval, Spike was pliant now; responsive to every caress; sucking eagerly on whatever was offered and letting Riley use his mouth and paint his lips with his cock. He was ready to beg, to be allowed to give more and take more, but Riley just kept on petting his face and hair; letting him moan and whimper in vain as he stroked himself off into Spike's mouth; came when he was good and ready.

Spike swallowed – as he knew he must – and closed his eyes. Talking just seemed to get him into trouble, so he waited quietly to see what would happen next. He felt a glass being tilted against his lips; Riley had thoughtfully got him some water. Spike took some.

"Want me to take these off?" Riley asked.

Spike was left to guess what Riley was talking about – the bonds or his jeans. Hard again and barely able to form words, Spike just nodded.

Riley gave a half-smile. "Too bad," he said. He raised Spike's knees so that his feet were flat on the ground. He stroked and teased, running the backs, and then the palms of his hands over Spike's inner thighs and down round his ass, lifting and spreading him like he owned every inch of him.

Spike tried in vain to spread his legs further; to offer himself up, but his jeans around his knees stopped him.

Riley feigned not to notice. He seemed determined to make Spike squirm and plead before giving Spike his little finger, let alone his dick.

"Want me?" Riley said, looking deep into Spike's eyes. For a moment he seemed fully present and himself again – really wanting to know.

Spike nodded.

Then Riley seemed to be slipping again, letting some part of himself go. "Come on Spike, is it so hard to say?" Riley's tone was gently chiding. He palmed Spike's cheek.

Spike tried to kiss the thumb that brushed his lips but it escaped him, and then the thumb was pressing against his sternum as if to hold him in place; deft fingers undid his black satin shirt leaving even more of him exposed, pale in the firelight. Riley put the flat of his palm on Spike's stomach for a second, appraising him; feeling the fluttering inside and finding it to his satisfaction.

Then the thumb found something to do lower down.

"Say it." Riley pushed his thumb in a little, and Spike jerked and pressed down desperately.

"I want … I want … you. Want your –"

"And what else do we say when there's something we'd like to have?"

A spark from the grate shot into the guard with a snap.

The silence and stillness that followed scared Spike. Something was definitely off with Riley. This was way beyond anywhere he'd gone before. And it was Spike's own fault. Lowering his eyes, Spike said, "We say 'please.'"

But Riley wasn't done with him yet. "Please, what?"

For a moment Spike was confused; when he realised what Riley expected of him – what he, Spike, had brought him to – his throat went dry as the Sahara.

"Please, Sir."

Shit.

This was so painfully familiar. What had he done to Riley Finn? How was it that he could bring out the worst in anyone, even Riley: his White Knight; his friend; his soul-mate. He'd somehow managed to twist the man he loved into something he wasn't; though that something seemed horribly familiar.

There was a distracted look on Riley's face now.

Spike made himself relax in his bonds, in total submission. "Riley, please, no …" Spike didn't know whether he was begging or promising, as he whispered, "No more games?"

~~

Riley was in some far-off place – where everything was black and white, and sometimes red; where might meant right and orders were given and obeyed without question; where men and horses died on his word of command – but he was shocked back to self-awareness by Spike's words.

He shook his head, puffed out a breath and quickly found his knife and cut the ties.

"No, no more. No more games."

He shook his head again and dashed a hand across his eyes, and sniffed. He rubbed Spike's wrists and kissed them. Then Spike took Riley's face between his hands, and kissed his lips; his eyes; his forehead.

Not knowing what he'd done to merit such treatment, Riley held him tentatively. He wondered if he still had the right to after what he'd done tonight, and really hoped he did.

He took off Spike's boots and jeans, and kissed his feet; and then Spike pulled him down to lie with him, face to face in the firelight, rubbing their hips together, and kissing him again. "Do you have …?"

Riley reached in his pocket for the lube, but then turned his head away in shame. "It's okay Spike, I've forfeited that privilege tonight. I should wait. But if you want to –"

But Spike shook his head. He looked disturbed at the suggested reversal.

So when Riley used the lube, it was on Spike, but not on himself. He didn't come again that night, and all the attentions of his mouth and hands were spent in trying to make everything be alright, and Spike stroked his head, and murmured his own apologies, and cried out Riley's name every time he came.

~~

Riley didn't sleep at all.

When dawn came, he kissed Spike awake.

Spike shivered and opened his eyes, then lowered them. "Shit, Riley, I'm so sorry. For yesterday. Can you –?"

"_You're_ sorry?" Riley was stunned. "You don't have any reason to apologise. I'm the one that should be sorry. I acted like – well, I don't have a word for it. Like a total jerk. I don't know what happened to me."

"It was my fault. I was pissing you about – bein' a prick-tease all day." Spike ducked his head. "Can't blame you for reactin' like you did."

"No, you _can_ blame me. You should. I went too far. Should have known better. I do know better."

Riley rolled out of bed, pulled on his jeans, went to the sink and began filling the kettle.

"I want to blame someone else, believe me I do. Not you, but maybe Professor Walsh." He clattered mugs in the sink. "I want to say that it was something she did to me, when she was trying to make me forget you – or maybe even before. That maybe she broke something in my mind – that maybe the drugs she was giving me broke down some walls or something. But I've been right off them now, for a couple days, so … I'm not so sure."

"They're probably still in your system," Spike said. "That'll be what it was – especially if there were steroids in the mix. You're … you're not _like_ that. Last night was just a … a thing."

"I hope you're right."

Keeping his back turned, making out that he had something else to do, though the kettle was on and the cups were ready, he said, "But Spike, you know when we first met, when you were … when Forrest and the others were makin' life hard for you?"

"Yeah …"

"Well, I wasn't much better. Not in my head." He moved things around in the sink. "I had … dreams … bad dreams. About hurting you, or … watching you being hurt."

~~

"Just dreams mate," Spike said.

It was a bit early in the morning for this kind of thing. He glanced around blearily, hoping to locate his fags.

"But it wasn't just while I was asleep. Even my daydreams – God! The things I imagined doing … Worse than –"

"Imagination's a funny thing," Spike cut in. Had to stop the bloke working himself up any further. "'S'not what you think about doing, that matters. It's the choices you make when you've done thinking. And God knows why, but you chose to help me, not hurt me, and I know I don't always show it, but I'm bloody grateful you did. I got no complaints."

"Yeah, I saved you, but I think … God, this is hard … I could only save you if you were in trouble. So it's like I was wishing you were in trouble. I don't know if this is making any sense …"

"Kind-of," Spike said.

Riley left what he wasn't doing and came and sat on the bed, taking Spike's hands in his. "It's like it's two sides of the same coin. Boy, did that coin fall the wrong side up last night, Spike." He looked down at their linked fingers as his face grew bright with shame. "I don't ever want that to happen again."

"You didn't hurt me. Not really." Spike pressed Riley's hands between his. "Didn't lay a finger on me I didn't deserve."

But Riley wasn't to be convinced or comforted. "I tied you up. Really tied you up, without your consent." He shook his head as if he could scarcely believe it. "I lost it. _Really_ lost it for a while. I took advantage."

Finally spotting his cigarettes, Spike loosed one of Riley's hands and leaned out of bed to snag the packet. "No harm done, mate," he said. "You stopped." He struck a match and lit up. "Stopped as soon as I asked you."

After a long, thoughtful drag, he added, "More'n Angelus would have done. Or Dru, come to that." He realised that the comparison wasn't especially comforting, but it was all he could come up with.

"No, it's not right, Spike." Riley said fervently. "The sooner we get the chip out, the better."

Phased by the apparent non-sequitur, Spike said, "Why? What's that got to do with it?"

"I don't want you to be like that – defenceless. I don't mean to lose it again, but if I do, I don't want to be able to hurt you, even by accident."

"You weren't gonna hurt me last night." Spike looked down. "Just teach me some respect."

"If I want your respect I should earn it," Riley said, turning away. "You have to have a chance of stopping me if I lose control like that again – to be able to fight back."

"Don't want to fight you," Spike said, flicking ash into the empty cigarette packet. "Wouldn't anyway."

"Then don't fight me over this." Riley turned back to face him. "Please. We'll … I don't know, get an internet line – do some research. Find some specialist who can get it out. However much it costs."

The set of Riley's jaw and the determination in his eyes allowed no argument.

Spike wasn't about to give him one.

~~


	7. Call Me Al

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spike deals with a minor inconvenience.

**Day 1**

"No, I don't wanna! I don't wanna! I donwanna! Idonwanna!"

That was the first even vaguely comprehensible utterance Spike had heard from Riley's niece Rebecca since she'd arrived this morning. He'd tried to block out the yelping and squealing as she got re-acquainted with the farm dogs earlier on, chasing them round the yard, her long hair flying. Not so long ago, he'd have eaten her just to shut her up, hungry or no.

He didn't do kids.

Well, he didn't relate to them anyway, and there was going to be no 'doing' of any kind: not with kids, even strangers' kids, even when he got this chip out. He wouldn't want to put Riley in that position.

He was trying to ignore the fact that a pesky sense of fair play seemed to have been jogged back to life when that annoying lump of silicon had been inserted into his cranium: there was no guarantee of either being removable.

Besides, if he wanted to eat her, he'd have to catch her first. That might be too much effort. She had a fair turn of speed on her – not like any of the little girls he'd ever eaten before.

But just because she wasn't on the menu, didn't mean he had to like her. 'Never work with children or animals' was a rule he'd tried to stick by, despite – or more likely because of – Dru's interest in both. They were too much competition for attention rightly due to him. In short, Spike was about as keen to meet Rebecca as she was to meet him.

But when Sarah finally succeeded in dragging her unwilling grand-daughter into the sitting room to meet him, he had to admit she was a prepossessing little slip. She hung back, hiding behind her hair, as Sarah used a combination of coaxing and brute force to get her to approach.

Spike wondered at her shyness; pretty girls weren't usually so reticent. When she came forward he saw the reason. The left side of her face – the side she was trying to hide – was marred by an ugly line of puckered skin: a scar that told of a very nasty and bloody injury.

He tried to school his features, but the girl was watching for his reaction, and saw that he saw.

She gave him a patently false smile.

He put his hand out, and – in his most unthreatening and William-ish voice – said, "Hello Rebecca. I'm very pleased to meet you."

"Yeah, right," she said. Her voice took on a weary sing-song rhythm as she went on, "And before you ask, I was running around, where I'd been told not to, not looking where I was going, and I fell and cut myself on a harvester blade. And, no, it won't get any better, and we can't afford plastic surgery, and I don't want it anyway."

She wiped her grazed and muddy hands on her jeans, inspected them, apparently found them tolerable, and in a parody of politeness, extended one towards him.

Spike reached to shake her hand, and the moment he did, she snatched it away, thumbed her nose at him, and pulled a face.

"Oh, Rebecca," Sarah said, shaking her head. "That's no way to behave. Spike is Riley's … friend. He lives here now, so you'll be seeing quite a lot of him. I was hoping you two would get along."

Rebecca's lips tightened into a thin line. Taking off Spike's voice and manner to perfection, she said, "Pleased to meet you I'm sure. Can I offer you some tea?"

Huh! Blatant hostility. He hadn't experienced any of that since he got here; it was almost refreshing.

"No, thanks," Spike said. "I've just had some."

But Rebecca wasn't even listening. She was looking at Sarah, mouthing, "Can I go now?" as conspicuously as she could manage.

"I think you'd better," Sarah replied. "Go on, go to your room. Read a book or something."

Spike frowned. "No, that's okay, she's –"

But Sarah just shook her head, and Rebecca swung herself out without a look back.

She'd been defensive, un-cooperative and downright obnoxious, and for some reason he couldn't name, Spike felt a bit of his heart follow her out of the room.

Sarah blew out a breath. "I'm so sorry, Spike. That was unforgivable."

"No, really, it's alr–"

"It's not alright, Spike. Not alright at all. She's driving her parents out of their minds with this behaviour of hers. They sent her here for the week because they needed the break. From their own daughter. And they're not _bad_ parents …"

Spike noticed that she didn't say they were good ones.

"But since the accident, she's been almost out of control. Her teachers are complaining – threatening to suspend her. She's been fighting with other children in her class. It has to stop."

"Can't be easy for the kid – scar like that. Children can be –"

"I know, Spike, but there's no reason for her to take it out on you too. Other people have bigger disadvantages and still manage to be civil. It's not to be tolerated."

~~

But Spike did tolerate it.

There was something about the girl that felt – familiar. As if he'd met her before, or been destined to meet her. She fitted into a place reserved for her – like a missing piece of the sky.

Later, when Rebecca was allowed back in the sitting room, he gave her his patented head-tilt and received a grudging apology in return. For a while, the Tommies played football in the snow with the Hun. Spike asked Rebecca about what books she liked and whatall, and she gave inoffensive answers.

But it didn't last long.

As soon as Sarah was out of the room, Rebecca went straight back onto the attack.

"How'd you get to be so pasty?" she said, peering at him as though he were an interesting species of maggot. "You're like a sheet. It's not natural."

Well. That was … personal. He shrugged. "Creature of the Night. I walk in darkness, shunning the light of the sun."

The cool-and-creepy approach didn't impress her one bit. She looked at him with frank contempt. "So, why'd you have such stupid hair?"

"Hey!" This kid wasn't playing fair at all. Well, he could play dirty too. "At least it's not all over my face."

She wrinkled her nose in disapproval. Her hair was her shield; he wasn't supposed to draw attention to it. Nevertheless, she refused to change the subject. Instead she pointed out helpfully, "Your roots are showing through."

Spike ran his hand through the hair in question, frowning. "Haven't had time to do them."

She raised a sceptical eyebrow. "Why? You don't do anything all day."

Bloody Hell! That was a low blow. Who told her that?

"Well, anyway, it's a fashion statement."

"What's it meant to say? 'I'm a never-was-wannabe-never-gonna-be old punk rocker?'" She stuck her hands in her jeans pockets and rocked back and forth on her heels. "'Cos that's what you look like."

Spike was sure he could have thought of something equally cutting to say in return if he'd had time to think about it – even without mentioning the scar – but it seemed undignified to indulge in a verbal battle with an eight year-old. It'd be even more humiliating if he lost, which, on current form, seemed like it was on the cards.

So he resorted to the time honoured tactic of sticking his fingers in his ears and humming, until she got bored and went away.

 

**Night 1**

"What the hell have you been doing all day?" Riley said when he pulled Spike's jeans off that night, and saw the bruises blossoming on Spike's shins. "Playing ice hockey without shin-pads?"

Spike shrugged, poked experimentally at one of the ugly contusions, and winced.

"Tripped," he said. "Fell down the stairs."

The truth was, Rebecca had been kicking him under the table all through tea. The first time, he'd yelped, and glowered at her across the toast and honey, but when Riley'd asked him what was wrong he'd just muttered, "Spilt some hot tea on my hand. Clumsy clot."

After that, he'd just pulled his legs as far as possible under his chair, gritted his teeth whenever he felt her boots make contact, and made his excuses to leave the table as soon as seemed polite, what with them having a guest and all.

Riley touched the bruises gingerly. "I'm gonna get something for those. They look pretty bad."

"Wouldn't look so bad if I wasn't so bloody pale," Spike blurted.

Riley looked questioningly at Spike's face. "Well, I absolutely forbid you to sunbathe, so don't even think about it." He got up to get his med kit, then stopped. "Hey, wait a minute. How can you fall down the stairs? We don't have any stairs."

"Porch steps."

Riley found the kit and rummaged around in it. "You fell down the porch steps."

"Uh-huh."

"Between the time I left the house at sunrise and when I got back, before sunset."

"Oh. No. It must have been when I went down to the cellar," Spike said. He glanced at Riley. Riley clearly wasn't buying it, so Spike resorted to distraction. "I'm thinking of changing my hair."

Riley found what he was looking for – something in a spray can – and looked up again. "Oh? Why's that?"

"I dunno. Takes too much lookin' after. Have to keep doin' the roots." Spike studied his fingernails. "And I think it looks stupid."

"How would you know?" Riley said as he sprayed something cooling on Spike's shins. "It looks fine. I like it as it is."

"You do?"

"Sure, Spike. But if you want to change it, you go right ahead. I didn't fall in love with your hair."

That was worrying. "You didn't?"

"No." Riley ran his hand across Spike's forehead, as if to smooth away his fears. "In case you'd forgotten, I fell in love with _you_."

"Oh. Okay." Spike breathed again. "But it looks alright?"

Riley leaned over and kissed the top of his head. "Has anyone complained?"

"No!"

Riley gave him a searching look. Perhaps he was protesting too much. "Who would complain? Who else cares how I look anyway?"

"Well if anyone does, you just let me know," Riley said as he stowed his gear neatly away. Half to himself, he added, "And I'll have words with her."

 

**Day 2**

Obviously, the last thing Rebecca wanted was for anyone to know about her persecution campaign against Spike, so she was as sweet as pie to him when anyone else was around: almost as sweet as she was to Riley. And the perceptive little minx somehow seemed to guess that Spike felt equally secretive about it.

Well, what was he gonna do? Run to Sarah and say, 'Rebecca called me names'? That would be worse than pathetic. Given some of the stuff he'd dished out in the past, he should have had her in tears in minutes. God, he could have eaten a chit like her in one bite. Why was he letting her play mind-games with him?

She was bold; she was vicious; merciless in her tormenting of him. There was no part of him that wasn't vulnerable to her attack. Sometimes she played 'soft kid' for a while, asking for help with something – advice about homework – or just chatting about things she liked. Old westerns and gangster movies were one of her obsessions. But if he opened up, even a little, he soon found that all he'd done was give her more clues on his weaknesses.

But he was stubborn. She would break before he did. In the absence of any real demons to do battle with, his war with this little ball of bile with a heart of flint assumed epic proportions. He was gonna win; and he was gonna do it without sinking to her level.

During one of her 'friendly' periods, she said, "I can't wait to be grown up."

"Why? It's not so great."

"No one tells you what to do – when to go to bed."

"That's true."

"Oh, except I forgot," Rebecca smarmed. "Riley tells you when to go to bed."

"He does not!"

Spike had noticed that Rebecca's face got a constipated look whenever she mentioned Riley, but he didn't know what that meant.

"You're so thin, he could use your ribs as a toast rack. I bet he bruises himself on you."

As though she had every right to, she reached out and touched his hand before he thought to snatch it away. "And you're as cold as a corpse. I wouldn't want to snuggle up next to _you_ in winter."

"Good job no one's askin' you to then," Spike said, pursing his lips.

She didn't reply – just punched him in the toast rack.

 

**Night 2**

Spike looked down at his stomach. "Riley?" he said, trying to sound casual.

Riley looked up at him. "Yeah, Spike."

"Am I … too thin?"

"What kind of question is that?"

"I mean, would you rather have a bit more meat on the bones? More to grab hold of?"

"Spike, you're perfect as you are. Who's been putting these ideas in your head?"

"No one." Spike said, rather more loudly than he'd intended. "Got a mind of my own."

Riley returned his attentions to Spike's cock.

"Only … you don't think I'm like a toast-rack, do you?"

A muffled, "No" came from Riley's end of things.

"And it doesn't … I dunno, bother you … that you're sharin' your bed with a corpse?"

Riley spluttered and surfaced. "Well, not until you said that. Anyway, you're a very noisy and insecure corpse. Now shut up."

"Sir! Yes Sir!"

Spike stood to attention.

Well, the bits of him that mattered.

 

**Day 3**

As the week went on, Riley became more and more convinced that something was seriously bugging Spike. Spike wouldn't say what it was, but Riley had a pretty good idea that it might be something about three and a half feet tall, with long hair and a distinctive facial scar.

He didn't have any evidence to back up his suspicion, and – for some reason – Spike wasn't about to give him any. Whenever Riley was in the room, the interaction between Spike and Rebecca appeared civilised enough, if somewhat strange and stilted.

In fact, his mom was very pleased with the way things seemed to be going. Since that first day, Rebecca had been so polite when Sarah was around that she said, "I think Spike's a good influence on her. Look, he's helping with her homework."

But Riley was more worried about what kind of influence Rebecca was on Spike than the other way round. He could see tension and defensiveness in every line of Spike's body.

He wished he could do something to ease that tension.

 

**Night 3**

"Look, don't think I don't know there's somethin' goin' on with you and Rebecca, Spike. You're playing some little children's game with her, and I have to tell you, so far it looks like she's winning."

Silence.

"Do you think my clothes are boring?"

Riley sighed.

 

**Day 4**

The last few days had taken their toll on Spike. Rebecca had eyes like x-rays: the special kind that could see all his insecurities and throw them into sharp relief, letting her pick-axe words remorselessly chip away at his self-respect.

And she still kicked like a bastard.

By the fourth day, it had become a war of attrition.

All morning, Rebecca kept making up excuses to seek Spike out. He couldn't go outside to escape her, and he refused to hide in the cabin, but that didn't mean he couldn't tag along with Sarah, for what protection that gave, slyly sticking his tongue out at Rebecca behind Sarah's back.

In the end, Sarah started looking uncomfortable and rather obviously trying to find things for him to do that didn't involve her apron strings. After that, it wasn't long before Rebecca finally caught him alone, watching TV in the sitting room.

"Watching your soppy serials?" she said. "You're like a little old lady!" She plonked herself down on the arm of his chair.

"Better than those boring old black and white things you watch," Spike snarked back on auto-pilot. He didn't even mean it – just said it to wind her up a notch.

"At least there's guns and horses and stuff in them. Soaps are for saps. And what's more …"

Rather than hear the frightful insults she started flinging at him; rather than rise to them, he started whistling and humming and tra-la-ing in the most irritating way he could manage.

"Stop that!"

"I'll stop bein' annoying when you stop sayin' mean things."

She tossed her head, flicking him with her hair. "Doesn't matter what I say. I can say what I want. No one likes me anyway."

Spike bit back the words he could feel vibrating on his treacherous vocal chords.

Not like she'd done anything to warrant them.

Instead, he said, "Someone must like you. Lots of people have no taste." He smirked. "Plus, plenty of insane people around. This _is_ the USA."

He was almost disappointed when she missed the opportunity to attack _his_ nationality in return.

"Even my Mom doesn't like me. That's why they sent me here. She can't stand the sight of me now I'm not her perfect little princess any more."

"Every little girl is a princess," Spike muttered. He kept looking determinedly at the television screen.

"Sap," she replied quietly.

Things really seemed to be getting better between them.

Until – apropos of nothing at all – she said, "Your voice is really annoying. I bet you're Dick Van Dyke's biggest fan! … Hey! Did you just growl?"

 

**Night 4**

"Does my accent grate on your nerves?"

Fantastic: more self-flagellation from Spike.

"No."

"Sure?"

"Positive."

There was blessed silence for a few seconds.

"Only, it's a bit fake, innit? I mean, it's not as if it was my real voice to start with. Just kind-of, made it up as I went along."

"Spike, when you speak, it's like heavenly choirs are singing just for me, okay? Now will you quit it?" Riley shook his head. "Either stop with the insecurity or tell me where all this is comin' from."

"No one."

Spike wouldn't look at him.

"Well, I asked 'where?', but 'who?' will do just as well. It's Rebecca isn't it? That little –"

"No!" Spike's brow creased. "Well, maybe, but –"

"Let me speak to her." Riley got up off the bed. He was going to give her a piece of his mind this very minute.

Spike grabbed his arm. "No, Riley, please –"

"Why not?"

"It's two in the morning?" Spike pointed out.

"Oh, well … okay. Not right now. But why do you keep defending her? It's almost like you're scared of her or something. No one's gonna throw spit-balls at you, or steal your lunch money for telling tales –"

"Not scared of her." Spike spat on his hand and began rubbing at a spot on his boot with fierce concentration. "It's just … well it can't be easy for her …"

Riley grabbed Spike's hand – spit and all – and held it between both of his own. "Alright, I get it. You feel sorry for her. Do you really think she'd thank you for that?"

Spike frowned. "Dunno. Maybe …"

Riley sighed. "Just promise you'll let me know if she gets too much for you, okay?"

"Riley, I'm a hundred-and-whatever-year-old vampire." Spike snatched his hand away. "I think I can take care of myself."

"You may be a vampire." Riley snatched Spike's hand back. "But she's an eight-year-old girl. Don't try and take her on in some macho pissing contest. She'll wipe the floor with you."

 

**Day 5**

Spike hardly knew why he was doing this to himself. He didn't have to put up with it. If he told Riley or Sarah some of the less obnoxious things Rebecca had said and done to him, she'd be right in the shit. On the other hand, all _he_ had to do was avoid her; stay in the cabin for the rest of the week.

But that would be an admission that she'd won.

He had a masochistic urge to hear the worst she could dish out to him. Everyone else here was so … polite; it was hard to put any trust in it. But if people were being unpleasant to you, at least that meant they were telling you the truth, didn't it?

And he was a sucker for the truth.

Yesterday's pursuit was over. He wasn't running any more.

There was a race for the remote.

Spike won.

Then they stubbornly staked out the sitting room, sniping from the trenches. Spike slouched in a chair, watching TV and reading the paper, while Rebecca sat on the floor, colouring a picture of an elephant, in all the colours of the rainbow.

Spike glanced over at the picture, and advised her, "I think you'll find that most elephants are grey."

"And _I_ thought your type liked rainbows," Rebecca murmured.

"_**What**_ did you say?"

"Nothing," she said blithely. Then, appearing to make a decision, she put down her pencil and armed the nuclear warhead.

"So. Which one of you is the girl?"

Spike whipped a horrified glance at her, then quickly looked away. "Don't know what you mean," he muttered.

Slowly, as though addressing an idiot, she said, "Out of you and Riley, one of you has to be the girl. Which one is it?"

Spike squirmed in the comfy chair. He knew she was pinning him with a glare – he could feel it – but he refused to meet it.

Finally he said, "Doesn't work like that."

"It's you isn't it?" She picked up a green pencil and began colouring a cloud with great deliberation. "You watch soppy stuff on TV. You dye your hair. You take it from behind like a bitch don't you?"

Spike's mouth dropped open, and – in defiance of vampire physiology – he blushed scarlet. "Where d'you get that nasty mouth of yours, little girl?"

"That's why you have a dog's name," she said, colouring the sky pink as though her life depended on it. "I bet you sit up and beg for it too."

"'S no wonder people don't like you, talkin' like that."

Spike was mortified to hear that he sounded genuinely hurt. He could feel a prickling behind his eyes. Fuck! He was _not_ going to be reduced to tears by an eight-year-old girl. "What'd I ever do to you anyway?"

"You made Riley queer," she said quickly. Her face looked pinched: as though she was about to cry herself.

"Did not," Spike muttered, picking up the paper and staring fixedly at the funnies.

"Did too."

"Did not!"

He threw the paper in her general direction, then clutched the side of his head as the chip fired a warning.

She looked at him scornfully. "Missed. And what's wrong with your head?"

He gritted his teeth. "You're hurting my brain with your nonsense."

"It's not nonsense. You made Riley queer. They all think so. Mom. Dad. Grandma. They don't say it but they think it."

A hit, Sir. A very palpable hit. "No they don't," Spike heard himself whine. "And what if I did? What's it _to_ you, so long as he's happy?"

"I was gonna marry him, that's what. Now I never will."

Suddenly everything was blindingly clear.

Spike couldn't blame her. Couldn't blame her for wanting what he had; what he'd got without in any way deserving it. Couldn't blame her at all, however ridiculous her dream might sound. When it came down to it, he'd just been the lucky one.

Frowning, he said, "If it makes you feel any better, I don't think you _can_ marry your own uncle."

Vampiric relationships being what they were, he couldn't quite remember all the rules humans placed on their couplings, but he was pretty sure about that one.

She sniffed. "We could have, when we'd run away to live in France. They let you do that there."

"Really?" Spike was genuinely intrigued. "Didn't know that."

"Yeah. Well, that's all out the window _now_," she said.

Spike would have been willing to bet she'd already started saving for the plane tickets.

"But _you_ can't marry him either," she said, as though it gave her some small degree of comfort. "Even if you did turn him into a big fag."

Spike bridled at this more than anything that had gone before.

"Riley is _**not**_ a big fag. Don't talk about him like that."

"Well he sleeps with you in the same bed. I looked inside your little house on the prairie. You're both fags."

"Well. You don't have to be so rude about it." Spike scratched the back of his neck. When had politeness managed to creep back up his list of priorities? He shook his head. "Anyway, he's too old for you. And fags are something you smoke. And where'd you learn all about this stuff anyway?"

"We have broadband. I look stuff up," she said. "Words I hear. My parents are too dumb to work the child security features."

Her intolerable smugness wasn't going to last much longer.

"Are they now?" Spike said, grinning like an alligator.

Rebecca's eyes widened as she realised her fatal error.

"Maybe I should help 'em out in that area?" Spike raised an eyebrow. "Don't want you corrupted any more –"

"You're not gonna tell are you?" she said, in a hushed, terrified voice.

Ah, the sweet smell of victory! Spike yawned and stretched theatrically. "See, the gloating's what'll get you every time."

"Oh, Spike, please don't tell them," she begged him.

This was the ticket.

"Hmm."

Spike polished his fingernails on his tee-shirt. It would have been better if he'd had a snow white Persian cat to stroke, but you had to work with what you had.

"Make it worth my while."

"How?" she asked in a very small voice.

"Well, you could stop kickin' me for starters."

That's right, Spike – think big why don't you?

"Just at mealtimes?" she said hopefully.

"No! Bloody hell! What are you? A bleedin' Ferengi? All the time. No haggling."

Her face fell. Then she brightened. "Can I still punch you?"

He considered. It wasn't like it hurt … much. He sighed. Always was a soft touch.

"Yeah, alright. But don't damage the nose."

 

**Night 5**

"Riley?"

"Yeah, Spike?"

"D'you ever want – you know – somethin' else?"

Riley sighed. "You're gonna have to be more specific than that."

"Someone … else," Spike said tentatively. At Riley's look of concern he hastened to add, "Not that _I_ do. Just wondered ..."

"No."

"Sure? Not even if it was a different kind of someone? A … female someone?"

"Okay, I'll bite," Riley said with a roll of his eyes. "Who is this female?"

"I dunno." Spike cast about. "Angelina Jolie. Sophia Loren. Pamela Anderson. Any woman."

"Any fabulously wealthy and famously beautiful female celebrity." Riley cocked an eyebrow.

"Yeah …" Spike wondered if he'd set the bar too high.

"No. I never even think about them."

Well, that was reassuring; though not in any way the point of this exercise.

"So … Riley … Did I … make you queer?"

_**"What?"**_ Riley looked at him, open-mouthed.

"Did I make you queer?" Spike pursed his lips. "Simple enough question."

"Okay, no. No one _made_ me anything. I made a choice." He went across to Spike and touched him lightly on the cheek. "I chose you. Not a man or a woman. You. Not about to go looking for anything else, in either model, okay?"

"But, you still could, right?"

"Could what?" Riley asked with studied innocence.

"You know …" Spike batted his eyelids. "With a woman." He cocked his head. "If I was dead."

Riley thought about it for a moment. "You are dead."

"If I was dust, Literal Boy!"

"Well, I guess if I wasn't too old and decrepit by the time I'd gone through a long period of mourning and years of therapy, I might … But only if I was thinking of you."

Spike smiled an uncomplicated smile. "C'mere."

 

**Night 5: later.**

Riley was just nodding off.

"Riley …"

"What, twice in one night?" Riley groaned.

"Just have to ask. Do you want … kids? A kid?"

Suddenly Riley was wide awake. "Is there something about vampire physiology you're not telling me?" He put a hand flat on Spike's stomach. "Oh! I think it's kicking already!"

Spike slapped his hand away. "Sod off – it was a serious question."

"Is this the 'woman' thing again?" Riley hazarded.

"No. Separate issue. I'm just curious."

"I'd have thought after the week _you've_ had, kids would be the last thing you'd want."

"She's alright," Spike said grudgingly.

"Who?"

"'Becca. She's not so bad."

"She's not?" Riley said, boggling. "So why have I been on damage control all week?"

"You have?" Spike widened his eyes innocently.

Riley punched him on the arm.

"'s not about me though is it?" Spike said. "I asked whether _you_ wanted kids."

"Why? Why would I?"

"Well, it's a natural urge innit – some people can't help it."

"I'm from the Midwest Spike," Riley said, smiling tolerantly. "I don't experience Pon Farr."

Spike snorted. "Yeah, but … don't wanna stifle your biological imperative do I?"

"My 'biological imperative'? Right – that does it. I'm cutting you off. No more Discovery Channel for you. 'Riley Finn, driven by his overwhelming biological imperative to return against incredible odds to the stream where he was spawned and take a mate –'"

"You know what I mean," Spike cut in. "You'd be a great dad. If I'd been a woman you'd have had kids."

"If this theoretical female – is it Angelina Jolie by the way?"

"Yeah, if you want," Spike said reluctantly.

"Well, if Angelina wanted them, then yeah, I guess. But it's not anything I have an unconquerable yearning for. Never even thought about it. It sure as hell isn't anything I'd rather have than this." He squeezed Spike's arm. "We're happy enough being the cool uncles aren't we?"

Spike sighed contentedly and lay back. "Sure we are."

 

**Day 6**

It was the weekend, but it was unusually quiet in the house. Sarah had prevailed upon Rebecca to go outside and play with some of the farm labourers' kids, and Spike wasn't sorry to be given time to recuperate while his tiny nemesis got some fresh air.

He was just ambling from the sitting room to the kitchen to get his second cuppa when he was hit by seven stone of girl-child moving at a rate of knots.

She'd collided with him, and seemed to have become embedded at the crash site; didn't look like being pried loose any time soon without specialised equipment. He could tell by the way her body shook that she was crying, but she didn't want him to see her face; just kept it buried in his side.

He looked down at the hard brown noggin bruising his ribs, and resisted an impulse to stroke her hair.

"Scars aren't somethin' to be ashamed of y'know," he said. "Should be proud of 'em."

"Easy for you to say," she choked out, between sobs.

He brushed the hair off the scarred side of her face, but she pulled it back, with a muffled, "Don't."

"Scars show you've lived a little. Look – 'm not ashamed of mine."

With some difficulty, he disentangled himself from her grip and went down on his haunches so that he was looking up at her; showed her the scar on his eyebrow.

"That's tiny," she said.

"Wanna know how I got it?"

"Don't know till you tell me," she sniffled between sobs.

"Oh, alright then," Spike said huffily. "I won't bother."

"Okay, tell me," she capitulated. "I want to know."

"A very brave little Chinese girl did it with a sword."

Rebecca's eyes widened and the intermittent sobbing stopped. "Why?"

Spike dug in his pocket and pulled out a half-decent tissue; while they talked, he carefully dabbed at her face with it. She pretended not to notice.

"I was on her patch, where I had no business bein'."

"And she attacked you with a sword?"

"She had to," Spike said. "It was her job."

"Did you have a sword too?"

"No."

"Sounds like you were the brave one," Rebecca said, not even bothering to hide how impressed she was. "How did you get away?"

"She got distracted. I got lucky."

"Still doesn't compare," she said sadly. "Mine's much bigger than yours."

"There, now you're gettin' it. But I got these too."

He pulled up his tee-shirt and showed her the fading scars left by the holy water the Initiative blokes had used on him.

"How d'you get those?" Tentatively, she ran her fingertips over the relief map on his stomach.

"Acid."

Spike was sure he'd read somewhere that most water was a mild acid. Holy water was just water with a spell on it to make it work like acid, so it was near enough true.

"Someone threw acid on you?"

"Shot it at me with a water pistol."

"There, you see?" she said, slumping in disappointment. "My scar's bigger and uglier, and way more boring. I hurt myself on some farm equipment."

Spike rolled his eyes theatrically. "But there – see? You spoil things for yourself by telling people that. You need to do what I do – make something up if the truth's too dull. Or just let 'em guess. Might get bit more respect from the herd that way."

She reached out with a hand to touch the scar on his eyebrow. "You're pretty cool, really."

"Huh!" He rubbed his hands on his thighs and stood up. "Thought I was a pasty-faced old rocker with stupid hair and a bad accent."

She grinned up at him weakly. "Nah, I was just messin' with you. You're okay."

"Well at last, something we can agree on." He slapped her on the back. "So, what're we gonna do for the rest of the day, Al Capone?"

"'Al Capone'?" She frowned. "Why are you calling me …" She thought about it. Then her jaw dropped in outrage and disbelief. "You called me 'Scarface'!"

"Didn't"

"Did!"

"No worse'n what you've been givin' out this past week. Sauce for the goose!"

"I am _so_ telling Grandma!"

"Think she'll believe your word against mine?" He gave her his best smirk.

"I was just starting to like you!" she whined, aiming a backhanded slap at his chest. "Take that back!"

"Make me." He parted his lips slightly and let a little flash of gold creep across his eyes.

She boggled slightly. "How did you –?" then the fury took over. She screwed up her face and threw a punch at his ribs, and then another, and another.

He blocked them all easily. At least she was sticking to their 'no kicking' pact.

Then she really started getting mad. She jumped up and raked her little paw across his cheek.

"There, see how you like it!"

But all he did was collect some of the blood welling in the scratches and lick it off his finger. "I like it fine."

"Gross!"

She ran at him and beat her fists against him, grunting with the effort of pounding on him and hurting him not a bit – well, maybe a little.

Then Spike grabbed her fists and said "Sssh!"

She quietened just enough to hear footsteps in the hall.

When Sarah poked her head round the door, and asked what all the noise was about, they were both standing stock still. Rebecca had both hands behind her back, and Spike was nonchalantly covering the scratches on his face with one hand.

"Nothing," they said in unison.

The instant Sarah went away, the pummelling resumed, only quieter and all the more furious because of it. But Spike just soaked it up. This was the easy part. Beatings from little girls, he could take in his sleep. After a few minutes, Rebecca was getting tired. Her punches were getting weaker and more limp-wristed by the second, and after a bit, they were little more than feeble flapping motions in Spike's general direction.

"Gettin' tired already are you, _**Al**_?"

She tried to step up her attack once again in response to the renewed insult, but her battle grimace became more and more like a desperate attempt not to laugh, until eventually, she caved, collapsing like landed fish, gasping for breath, and still flailing her arms at the air.

Spike snorted and went to make that second cup of tea.

~~

From then on, whenever Rebecca was introduced to anyone, she told them, "Call me Al"; but no one did, except Spike.

When Riley and Sarah asked where she got her strange nickname, all either of them would say was, "Private joke."

And when she was being snarky – as she still was from time to time – all Spike had to do to put a stop to it, was to frown slightly and say, "Broadband, Al," in a quiet warning voice.

That would send her into paroxysms of terrified laughter.

So, they were friends. Neither of them said it, but they were.

She asked her parents if she could come and stay every weekend, and usually they were happy to let her. Her troubles at school didn't go away, but at least she'd got her sense of humour back.

She didn't ask Spike why he never went out in the sun – she seemed to understand that some kids were just like that, and it didn't do any good trying to change them. Often, against her natural impulses, she stayed indoors on the pretext of getting his help with her reading or her homework. He knew she didn't need it; she was a bright kid, but – grateful for the company – he never discouraged her from it.

One day, of a sudden, Spike realised he was alone in the house with her. Riley and his dad were out on the farm somewhere, and Riley's mom had just upped and gone into town.

Left him alone with her.

When it dawned on him, how he was trusted, he nearly panicked every time she went out of view, in case something happened to her on his watch.

William the Bloody Childminder.

~~


	8. Making Hay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spike gets jealous.

The months passed, and Riley seemed content to earn his keep – and Spike's – by helping out on the farm. He was happy out-of-doors, doing physical things that didn't require too much mental effort.

Not that he wasn't capable of it; Spike was under no illusions. He owed his freedom to Riley's ability to think on his feet and plan ahead. Riley wasn't nearly as dumb as he should be for someone so good looking. But the break was doing him good after all he'd been through. Every day he looked more relaxed; more at peace, with his decision to leave The Initiative, and with himself.

It made Spike glad to see it; but if he was honest with himself, he found it very hard to share that peace.

He tried to make himself useful: helped Sarah with any stuff that needed doing indoors; minded Al and kept her amused if she was over; did bits of fixing up that Josh could have done, but hadn't got round to getting started on. He also made a particular point of keeping Riley's guns and other Initiative kit in good working order.

When there was nothing else to do, he tried his hand at writing a few paragraphs. They always looked excruciating if he read them over the next day, so he never let anyone see.

In short, he did his best not to spend too much time sitting on his arse in front of the telly; apart from the deleterious effect on his brain, it just wouldn't look good.

Luckily, Josh and Sarah seemed to accept it was none of their concern, that Spike had no visible means of support apart from their son. But it wasn't very satisfying.

He felt like a spare part.

All through that first summer, he chafed as he had to watch Riley and the other guys who worked on the farm set off together, while he was trapped within the confines of the house and its immediate surroundings, keeping to the shadows.

The sunlight allergy had never bothered him this much before.

Yeah, he'd made a bit of a project of finding the Gem of Amara; but that had been to keep his mind off Drusilla; maybe give him the chance to take Buffy off-guard in the daytime, and get himself back into Dru's good graces.

All that felt like a lifetime ago.

The 'Big Bad' persona was hanging in a closet, and Spike was just 'that weird guy who lives at the Finn place, with Josh's boy – the one who quit the army.' A shrug and a headshake: 'What's that deal?'

At least, that's how Spike imagined it went, if anyone spoke about him at all. Most of the farm labourers hardly seemed to notice him, any more than he did them; they just did their jobs and went home to their wives and kids.

All except for one of them: Todd.

Todd wasn't married, though girls must be lining up round the block.

He was tall, but not too tall; dark-haired; lean and tanned and well-muscled; could have had a career as a porn star, no problem, and on some days – the bad days – Spike wished he did.

Because if Todd had been a porn star, he'd be on some set right now, in Malibu or Acapulco, getting his bits shaved or his nipples iced, and if he were in Malibu or Acapulco, he wouldn't be here.

But Todd wasn't a porn star; he was Josh's right-hand man. He was quiet, reliable, handy at fixing machinery, well-liked and respected by the help; a good bloke. And he never said a word out of place to Spike; in fact he was quite personable: friendly, even. Spike couldn't find a rational reason to fault him.

But when Todd stayed after work, as he did most days, to share a beer with Riley and Josh Finn on the porch, the three of them talking idly about the forecasts for the area, or the truck that had given up the ghost that day, or the order for fertiliser that was coming in tomorrow or some such, Spike could hardly stand it.

What the blazes was wrong with Todd?

God, the man had Riley to himself all day, didn't he? Why couldn't he just go home like a normal person, instead of hanging about, creeping round the boss and talking shop?

Spike even tried – on a few humiliating occasions – to join in the chit-chat. Not that anyone seemed to mind having to explain everything to him, but he felt like an idiot. He didn't know anything about farming, and likely he never would. All he knew for sure was that Todd could go where he couldn't, and do things with Riley that he never would.

Todd was the one who got to work with Riley in the fields, and lie in the sun with him during the lunch-break as they chewed straw and ate a packed lunch. And when they were hot and sweating and covered in … whatever it was you got covered in when you grew corn: something hot and dusty that needed to be washed off, it was Todd who went skinny-dipping with Riley in the river after work, when Riley should have been heading home.

The thought of it made Spike want to crawl away and hide.

He couldn't be any help on the farm; couldn't watch the sweat trickle down Riley's back and chest, making pathways down those hard smooth surfaces in the dusty stuff – whatever it was; couldn't even laze about in the background and make stupid suggestions. He'd have been good at that.

On days when Riley was working with Todd in sight of the farmhouse, Spike was torn between keeping right away from the windows – ignoring them completely – and spying obsessively to see whether there was anything … out of order.

Often he gave in, watching them with an ache growing in his belly: an ache he tried to hide, because Riley had given him no reason to suspect him.

It demeaned him to be so insecure; he hated himself for his own weakness.

But he hated Todd more.

~~

On this particular hot, hard day, though Riley looked tired when he came home, he still managed to bound up the steps onto the porch as if the sight of Spike waiting for him had given him a second wind. Spike rose eagerly to greet him, a hand outstretched. But when Riley got closer, Spike's nose told him something that dumped him back in his seat again. He felt a tightening in his chest; like all the oxygen had been sucked out of the universe, and he needed it.

He nodded warily. "Riley."

Riley looked at him askance as he sat down beside him, but Spike avoided meeting the questioning glance. He kept his eyes cast down; he was trying hard not to panic. Then Todd came up the porch steps and sat down on other side of Spike.

Spike looked from one of them to the other, covertly scenting the air. There was no mistake. Riley had Todd's smell all over him.

Spike felt the demon trying to rise, crawling under his skin; he had to beat it back.

Todd looked curiously at him. "You okay man?"

But it was more than Spike could do to keep a civil tongue in his head, so he didn't try. He just got up, managed to mumble, "I have to …" then shook his head and fled.

~~

Spike could hardly think. He started down the hall towards the side door – the quickest route to the cabin – but he didn't want to go there; not now.

Sarah came out of the kitchen; he sidled past her without a word. She looked at him enquiringly, but he shook his head.

"I'm fine," he muttered.

Thank the stars, she let him go. If she'd put a hand on him, he might have laid into her: either that, or broken down in front of her.

He had to get away, somewhere private. He slipped into Riley's old room, shut the door, and leaned against the wall, covering his nose and mouth with his hands. But it was too late to keep out the airborne truth he didn't want to accept.

He'd known in his heart that this would happen.

_He'd known!_

But having the proof thrust in his face was just too much.

After a few frozen moments of stunned disbelief, Spike sagged; slumped down to the floor, looking at the boards, while scenes flashed through his head: scenes from that dream he'd once had, where he and Riley had been making love outside in the sunshine, surrounded by the hum of insects and the scent of flowers.

Now, in Spike's place he could see Todd. Todd, with his dark hair flopping into his eyes, braced over Riley on one dark-tanned hand as the other hand rested on the paler gold of Riley's flank, while all around the corn grew high, and shielded them from every gaze but his.

He watched, helpless and silent, as Riley betrayed him, bringing the rains too soon, spoiling the crop. And the rains came, and the rains came and God, when would these rains ever stop?

~~

After what seemed like hours, Spike heard the door open, and Riley's voice saying, "Spike? Are you in there?"

Spike blinked. He rubbed a hand across his face and then through his hair, trying to make himself presentable.

Riley poked his head around the door. "What's goin' on? Are you okay? Todd said he thought you looked –"

"Oh, _Todd_ said, did he?" Spike almost choked on the name, but the rest rushed out in an unstoppable flood. "Let's by all means hear what bloody pearls of perceptive wisdom have dropped from Todd's luscious lips. What did Todd say, Riley? What a great time he had today? What a bloody fucking brilliant lay you are? What a useless bloody waste of space I am?"

"What? What's happened?" Riley demanded. He slid into the room and quietly shut the door behind him. "Did Todd say something? God, Spike, has he done something to you?"

For just a second, Spike could almost believe the concern in Riley's voice was real. Riley had dropped to his knees in front of him; he was trying to look him in the eye. But then Todd's stink washed over Spike again.

Spike turned away. "Riley, how could you?" Fuck, he was tearing up again, like some stupid little housewife.

Riley's brow creased. "How could I what, Spike? What have I done?" He stood up, spreading his hands. "Tell me what happened, please."

Spike shook himself, trying to work out where his backbone had gone. He shouldn't be blubbering like a lovesick teenager. He should be raging bloody mad.

"Okay, you want me to spell it out for you?"

Spike sprang to his feet and advanced on Riley. He cracked the bones in his neck and let the demon rush to the surface; Riley didn't even flinch though Spike was right in his face. Spike inhaled deeply.

God! It was true; there was no mistaking it. The smell of Todd's sweat and Todd's pheromones steamed from Riley's clothing and his exposed skin, even more overpowering now that Spike was in game-face.

He poked Riley hard in the middle of his chest. The chip fired, making him clutch the side of his head, but the pain was welcome. It was helping him stay on his feet.

"You fucking stink of him, Riley."

He shoved Riley backwards again, hissing from the pain but still advancing until Riley was backed up against the wall.

"I stink of him?" Riley still sounded genuinely confused. "Who? Todd?"

Spike flinched at the sound of the name on Riley's lips; couldn't even bear to say it himself, now. "Yes, your fucking sidekick-foreman-farming-expert-bloke, who else?"

Frowning, Riley raised a hand to his nose and sniffed. "I can't smell anything."

"Don't try to deny it." Spike growled. "Don't you dare fucking deny it. He's all over you."

Have to give the man credit for his acting skills; Riley still looked baffled.

Spike shook his head. "You think I don't know?" He thumped the flat of his hand to his chest, over his heart, then he gripped Riley by the throat; but it sickened him even to touch Riley, now Todd had …

He paced the length of the room, his hands cutting randomly through the air, then he stormed back and pressed his ridged forehead to Riley's, and thundered in his face, "So, what, you fancied a shag and couldn't wait until you got home? You fucking …"

Spike wanted to call Riley a whore, or a slut, but stopped himself in time; threw his head back and closed his eyes and said through gritted fangs, "You _dog_, Riley Finn."

"Wait a minute! You think I –?" Riley looked thunderstruck. "But I don't underst–"

"Forgot vampire senses when you indulged in your little –" Spike's face twisted as his imagination supplied him with the Polaroids. He shook his head.

"I haven't indulged in any –"

Then Riley nodded. "Spike, listen to me. We didn't have sex. I haven't had sex with Todd. I swear it."

"Think I can't smell him on you?"

"Go on then, tell me what it is you can smell." Riley spread his arms out wide, submitting himself for inspection.

"Fine," Spike snapped. He ghosted his face around Riley's head and chest, and then lower, and he knew at once that what Riley was saying was true. The mingled aromas tainting Riley didn't include any sign of recent sex. But what Spike did detect, mixed in with Todd's normal, background scent – hard work, farm chemicals and cereal crops – were strong, high notes of fear, relief and shared affection.

Spike's heart sank.

That didn't make it okay.

It made it worse.

Riley and Todd had embraced, that was certain. But it wasn't just sex – just a momentary weakness. They must be in love. They'd declared themselves to each other and embraced; Todd was afraid – maybe scared of how Spike would react – but it was only a matter of time.

That was it then.

All the growling and posturing in the world wouldn't do any good.

Spike turned away; walked away, game-face dissolving; his hands hanging by his sides. Riley was talking but Spike could hardly hear him.

"There's nothing goin' on between me and Todd."

He felt Riley pull him around and shake him.

"What you can smell on me? I get what that is. Todd – he was horsing around this afternoon and nearly fell off the Combine. I managed to catch hold of him and stop him slipping off. That's all that happened Spike, honest to God."

Spike wrapped his arms around himself, still not looking at Riley. He'd never heard Riley say, 'honest to God' to back up a lie. He wanted to believe him. He did. But when you work yourself up so high, it's hard to come down again.

He pressed the palms of his hands against his eyes. "Smells like you spent all day rollin' in the hay with him." The sound of his own whining voice sickened him. No wonder Riley chose to spend so much time with Todd instead of with him.

"Spike, we'd worked up a sweat, and he'd had a bad scare, but we weren't making out or anything. I just had to hold on to him until he got his balance. If he'd fallen he could have been killed. It's a long way down from one of those monsters."

What Riley said made sense; it was consistent with the evidence; there was no reason not to take it a face value. He'd have to be crazy to persist in his accusations; he'd risk driving Riley away – making them come true, even if up to now, they'd only existed in his mind.

Spike swallowed, trying to get rid of the lump in his throat. The furious rip-tide that had been carrying him along dumped him, wrung out and exhausted on the shore, and Riley was there waiting, desperate to give him mouth to mouth. But Spike still couldn't look at him. Embarrassed by his outburst, he still wasn't ready to apologise.

It was Todd's fault for being so … bloody perfect.

"Riley, I don't want you touchin' him."

Riley raised his arms and let them fall to his sides, a picture of helpless bafflement. "Spike, we work on a farm, it's physical. We can't help –"

"Please Riley?"

Spike sniffed, to stop his nose running. "I know I'm probably bein' a bit of an idiot, but please, I'm beggin' you, if you could just try –?"

Riley took him by the shoulders and went to kiss him, but Spike deliberately turned his head at the last minute, like one of those infuriating Chinese dolls Dru used to find so amusing.

Riley settled for kissing his cheek instead. "I'll try, okay? I won't touch him unless I have to. But you gotta cut me some slack on this, Spike. I've known Todd half my life, and he's been a good, solid foreman for my Dad these last few years. I can't get pissy with him. My Dad went through a lot of guys before he found a reliable second-in-command. Someone he could rely on."

Spike was silent.

"I'm lucky Dad needs my help, or I'd be looking for work elsewhere by now. I don't want to be responsible for his right-hand man quitting on us."

So: he'd made a fool of himself, and all he'd got out of it was a dressing down from the man he loved, and a reminder of how little use he was to anyone.

How great Todd was.

And Riley was still talking.

"In any case, Spike, he's my friend."

Spike really wished he would stop, just stop, talking.

But he didn't.

"Everyone needs friends."

Spike snorted.

Riley snapped his fingers. "Hey, why don't you invite one of your friends up for a few days?"

Spike stared at him, a look of incredulity on his face.

"They could have my old room, it'd be cool. I'd like to meet …" Noticing Spike's lack of enthusiasm, Riley tailed off.

"You do remember I'm a _vampire_, don't you?" Spike said flatly.

"Of course." Riley frowned.

"Riley, love, vampires don't have friends. We have sires. We have minions. We have victims. We have rivals. If we're very lucky -" he paused and looked pleadingly at Riley - "If we're very lucky we have lovers." Spike shook his head. "We don't have friends."

Riley looked at him blankly. "You've lived over a hundred years, and you don't have any friends? What kind of life is that? How can you live so long and not make any friends?"

"Yeah, a hundred years is a long time. How long does it take to make a friend?"

"I dunno. Mostly it takes time I guess. But –"

"And how easy do you think it is for _a vampire_ to fall out with someone? Piss someone off? Or – oh, I don't know – kill them?"

Riley was getting the picture, and he wasn't about to hang it on his wall.

"In all those years, there must have been someone you liked …?"

Spike tried. He racked his brains and came up with … Willy the Snitch.

Yeah, he'd fit right in.

There'd been Dalton – he could have been a friend, if Spike hadn't got him killed. Clem – he'd been a friend in need alright but Spike hardly knew him, and he'd be hard to explain, what with the dermatological excess. Buffy's mum? She'd at least listened to his problems; but she'd probably do the same for anyone in distress. Kind of woman she was.

And what about Buffy?

She hadn't staked him when she had the chance; not many people could say that. Did that make them friends?

No, that was pushing it too far.

He couldn't imagine inviting any of them to be house guests – but Riley was still looking at him with an expression of hopeful expectancy.

"I used to play poker with Dracula back in the day," Spike volunteered.

Riley's eyes widened. "So Dracula actually –"

"Played poker, yeah. He was rubbish at it too." Spike nodded soberly. "Don't worry – we weren't close."

Riley looked relieved that Spike wouldn't be inviting Vlad the Impaler for a sleepover.

"Well, you'll make friends here. Give it time."

That was Riley: always looking on the bright side.

"My mom adores you. 'Becca loves you to pieces. And you probably don't want to hear this, but Todd thinks you're pretty cool."

Spike shook his head. It was heartening that Sarah didn't hate him, but it didn't mean much; women were easy to charm. And Al was fun, but she was just a kid. As for Todd's opinion …

"They don't even know me Riley – they don't know the first thing about me. How can they be my friends?" He ran his hands through his hair. "I'm nobody here. I'm like the man who never was. I don't have anything to say to anyone except you. Most of the things I've done I can't talk about to anyone else. Not that I'm proud of much of it, but it's like it never happened except in my head." He looked hopelessly at Riley. "Thought _you_ were my friend as well as –"

"Of course I am," Riley cut in.

"You're all I've got. Can't lose you."

"You won't Spike." Riley held Spike's face between his hands and looked him in the eye. "I'm here, and I'm yours. Friend, partner, whatever you want me to be. Nothing's gonna change that."

~~

So Spike put on a brave face, and they both tried to buck themselves up. Spike believed Riley's explanation; he intended to prove it that night, on Riley's body.

But jealousy and envy aren't rational, and when Riley came near him – even after he'd showered – Spike could still smell Todd on him, and that made him distant, despite his best efforts to get over it.

They spent a tense and miserable evening, and when they turned in that night, the images of Riley and Todd, making metaphorical hay while the sun shone, were still at the forefront of Spike's mind. He shrank away from Riley's embrace, and turned his back.

"Come on Spike. Help me out," Riley said. "What do you want me to do?"

"Can still smell it … him. On you," Spike whispered hoarsely.

~~

Riley got up and went to the sink. He washed, and washed again, using two kinds of soap, biting his lip and scrubbing so hard with the nailbrush that he almost rubbed his skin raw. But when he came back to bed, Spike stayed closed off from him, and they both spent a sleepless night, silent and distressed.

He'd let Spike down – badly. He hadn't seen; hadn't even noticed how isolated Spike felt: how totally dependent on him. There had to be a way out of it. Riley found that his mind instinctively turned to Angel as someone who might be able to come up with a solution. Angel had known Spike as long as anyone, after all.

But he wasn't ready to think about that. Not yet, and definitely not now, with their relationship suddenly in meltdown.

Things were blurrier in the morning, but not much better. Before Riley left the cabin, Spike struggled out from under the covers, his hair all messed up, and shadows under his eyes.

"Sorry about the … you know – insanity."

Riley nodded. "Sure, don't sweat it."

Spike looked so painfully lost and afraid, it cut Riley to the heart; but there had to be a way round this. If he caved to Spike's jealousy now, it could get worse; in a few months' time he might not be able to set foot outside on his own.

But he couldn't stand to see that look on Spike's face.

He went back over to the bed and this time – thank God – Spike allowed Riley to kiss him. All Riley wanted to do at that moment was crawl back under the covers and promise Spike anything he wanted: that he'd kill Todd; that he'd never get out of bed again – but there was stock needing to be fed. Animals and other grown-ups were relying on him.

Spike let go of Riley's neck and sank back, with a moan of disappointment.

That did it; time to deploy the emergency secret weapon. It wasn't a solution, but it might give Spike a lift until he could think of something better.

"Don't worry about it Spike. We'll work it out," he said. Then he kissed Spike on the forehead, and went about the business of the day.

He was a man with a plan.

~~

Spike spent the whole day talking himself round. In the end he decided to suck it up; be civil to Todd; friendly, if he could. It shouldn't be so hard. If Todd thought he was cool – that's what he should be.

But when Spike saw Riley and Todd making their way back to the farmhouse in the late afternoon sunshine, laughing at something that had happened that day – something he didn't know about, some joke he probably wouldn't get – his hatred flared up anew.

He hated Todd.

He couldn't help it.

He just. Hated him.

Todd waved at Spike, and slapped Riley on the back.

What gave him the right?

He had no right …

As Riley came up the steps, Spike almost snarled at him.

"Hey, Spike, what's wrong?" Riley said.

It was as if he'd forgotten all about yesterday.

"Don't like it." Spike said, looking down. It didn't make him feel any better, knowing that he was the one being unreasonable. "The way you are … with him." He gestured with a flick of his head towards Todd's retreating back. "Can't help it. Don't like him touchin' you like that, like he _owns_ you. I can't bear it."

"C'mon Spike, don't be so childish," Riley said, not unkindly. "I can't tell him not to slap me on the back. It'd look really off."

Injured and silent, Spike turned and walked away, back to the cabin, and Riley followed. Apparently oblivious to the chill in the air, Riley even put an arm around Spike's shoulders. When they got inside, the big lunk flung himself down on the bed and with blatant lack of ceremony, said, "Get me a beer would you?"

Seething, Spike went to the fridge.

It was empty of beer.

"There's none here," Spike said shortly.

"There'll be some in the house. You don't mind do you? I've been workin' hard all day, I'm beat."

Spike's jaw dropped. Riley had obviously decided that all he needed was a firm hand. Seething with resentment, Spike went to do Riley's bidding.

…

He couldn't find the beer.

He opened cupboard after cupboard, and still couldn't find it. Even when he went down to the cellar where the back-up supplies were usually kept, there was no beer to be seen. He flew back up the stairs in a fury and searched the kitchen cupboards again. Finally, after a maddening ten minutes spent opening and slamming nearly every door in the house, he felt a hand on his shoulder.

It was Sarah.

"What's up Spike, what are you looking for?"

Usually her presence was an instant balm to his spirits but today …

It wasn't her fault.

He gritted his teeth, trying, really trying, not to snap at her.

All he could safely get out was the single word: "Beer."

He pursed his lips and looked at the floor.

Sarah must think he'd gone stark raving bonkers.

"Oh, didn't Riley mention it?" she said, an apology for her absent-minded son in her voice. "He re-organised my storage at lunchtime. Said he'd noticed I didn't have enough space in the kitchen, and the cellar was cluttered, so he moved the back-up supplies to his old bedroom."

Spike saw red. He stormed down the hall to the new 'storage room', grabbed four bottles, and swept out again, leaving Sarah staring after him.

~~

Spike was incandescent.

_Sent to bring beer._ Like he was a minion, a _servant._

Riley _must_ have remembered he'd moved the supplies; he'd just not seen fit to inform Spike; he'd deliberately sent him on a wild goose chase. He was taking the piss. It was intolerable.

Spike was ready to let loose: let fly with another fit of temper. Couldn't help himself, even if it broke them apart. He crashed his shoulder into the cabin door, almost knocking it off its hinges.

But as the door slammed back against the wall, what he saw froze him in the doorway; made him catch his breath.

The scene could have been painted by Vermeer, if the Dutch master had ever contemplated using his talents so imaginatively. Riley was standing, turned three-quarters away from him, the indirect evening light softly falling on him. He was wearing nothing but a Stetson, and a pair of black chaps that sat low on his hips, the cut of the leather framing and revealing those sweet curves ...

Spike let loose a moan as all the blood in his body surged to his cock. The beer bottles dropped unheeded from his fingers, and rolled away.

Then Riley turned towards the door – towards Spike. He was stroking himself; pretending to have been caught unawares in the act of pleasuring himself. His eyes were wide; his expression, diffident.

It was bold; confident in planning and in execution, but the look on Riley's face wasn't bold at all. What it said was, 'Please, Spike, as you love me, don't laugh at me.'

Nothing could have been further from Spike's thoughts. He stood for a long moment, rapt; hardly believing; watching the lazy movement of Riley's hand on his dick.

"I'm only for you, Spike."

Spike opened his mouth to speak, but couldn't. Every nerve ending was ablaze. His skin felt tight; he was molten inside; wanted to be touching Riley everywhere at once, be in him, around him, force Riley to his knees; take him now, in the dry heat of his passion, hard and brutal; lose himself completely.

But Riley had placed himself in Spike's hands. Spike could hear Riley's heart racing; he mustn't push Riley any farther than he wanted to go.

Spike took a deep breath. He was hardly able to walk a straight line as he went up behind Riley, but when he reached out and laid a hand between Riley's shoulder blades, the contact steadied him. He let his hand rest there, and ran the other down Riley's spine.

Riley shuddered and swayed slightly.

Spike brushed his lips against the nape of Riley's neck; bit down gently; heard a sharp intake of breath from Riley, and released him.

In a voice of raw silk, Spike demanded, "So … tell me again. Who do you belong to?"

"I'm yours, Spike," Riley said in a hoarse whisper.

When he took a breath, Spike caught a faint remnant of Todd's scent on Riley: the light imprint of a hand on his right shoulder. He placed his own hand over the place where Todd's had been. With the glacial calm of a headmaster contemplating a ferocious caning, Spike said, "He's touched you here."

"I know, Spike," Riley said, his voice soft with sorrow.

Spike pressed down on the offending flesh. "Wasn't his to touch, was it?"

"No – it was yours. I couldn't help it. I'm –"

"Then I forgive you," Spike said. He bit down on the place where Todd had dared to defile his man. This time he let his fangs drop for just long enough to draw blood and Riley's breath hissed from him. Spike closed his eyes as he tasted nectar. He licked a drop of blood from his lips.

"Are you still touching yourself?"

Riley's answer, "Yes, Spike" was little more than a sigh.

"Who for?"

"You, Spike. Only you."

"Good," Spike said softly. "Don't stop."

He drew in a long breath as he moved on down the sweeping lines of Riley's back, scenting the air, and finding no more sign of another's touch.

"Let me see you."

Riley turned to face him, his eyes lowered, as Spike continued to inspect him.

He sniffed Riley around his face and neck, down his chest and stomach, unabashed at this primitive invasion of Riley's space, because Riley was his – to do with as he willed.

He'd said so.

Spike allowed his glance to slide down to Riley's cock. Riley was still touching and teasing himself, as he'd been told to do, but holding himself back with the other hand; Spike hadn't given him leave to come.

Spike stood tall. He looked Riley up and down; walked around him; made himself appreciate the play of the muscle under the skin, the roundness, the proportion, the tone and definition of the man offering himself so unselfishly. He was struck once again by the perfection of Riley's torso, gentle undulations and flatnesses, sleek as marble, but warm and forgiving. Spike ran his fingers down the strong sloping muscles of Riley's neck to his shoulders; they seemed strong enough to hold up the world.

Riley Finn was built like a bloody centaur.

And it didn't matter that Spike felt like a scarecrow beside him; Riley was his.

Spike dropped to his haunches. He placed the flat of his hand against the front of Riley's thigh, and inhaled deeply; farm smells; leather; Riley's own musk. It was as Riley had said. There had been no transgressions.

Riley was as hard for him as Spike had ever seen him. Spike breathed on Riley's cock. It stiffened even more. He tasted the head with his tongue.

Riley gave a little broken cry, and his hips jerked.

"Turn around for me. I want to see that beautiful arse again."

Riley obeyed him.

He kissed the firm flesh, exposed there for him to punish or caress. He wanted to close his eyes and just feel the light brush of golden hairs against his lips, but he wanted to look as well, because what he saw was just, fucking, perfect.

He reached between Riley's legs, and rolled and squeezed his balls with a proprietary hand. It made Riley's breathing hitch and stutter; made his hips strain forwards.

Spike's own erection was aching, but he was too intent on Riley to pay it any mind. He dragged his hand back and forth between Riley's thighs: now with an open palm, fingers splayed and lax, gently playing with him; now a rude fist, now an unforgiving claw.

Riley widened his stance, allowing Spike to deal with him exactly as he wished, and the small submissive gesture nearly robbed Spike of his control – made him come, just from Riley's willingness to please him.

Pressing his cheek against Riley, Spike let the demon rise, and then he was rubbing his brow ridges against the bare, warm-meadow-hay-smelling skin, crooning softly for lack of words; and all the while, Riley continued to stroke himself – holding himself on the brink.

Spike reached around and covered Riley's hand with his own.

"Look at yourself," he commanded.

Riley looked down, and when he saw Spike's hand on his – on him – framed by the black leather, he came with a cry and sank to his knees.

"Fuck, Riley, you beautiful –"

All thoughts of control blown to hell, Spike was lost, feeling giddy, feeling trashed by the innocent decadence of this man – his man. He couldn't stop touching and looking and tasting – God, so full, the only way he could let it out was in the rubbing of his game-face on every part of Riley that the chaps left exposed.

He didn't know how many times he came – in his jeans or after he lost them – or how many times Riley did, because it all felt like some dream: one golden moment stretching to infinity or one fucking brilliant mushroom trip after another, and Riley loved him and only him.

~~

When the frenzy began to subside, and Riley lay exhausted on the boards, Spike set to cleaning their spunk off every part of Riley with his tongue, and it wasn't long before Riley was getting hard for him again.

But still it wasn't enough.

Not enough that Riley lay spread out and melting like butter, his arms above his head, his eyes closed, blissed-out.

Not enough that Riley's body had taken on a slow, rocking rhythm like waves breaking on stones, breaking, and breaking again on Spike's hunger, Spike's need, Spike's love, as Spike roamed over him with tongue, teeth, hands, taking possession of every part of him.

Not enough that when Spike demanded, "Open your eyes", Riley, doing as he was bid, and seeing the face of the demon hovering over him, came again, helpless, and murmuring his promise with the little breath he had, "Only you, Spike."

Because the glint of light off one of the beer bottles, where it had rolled under the bed mocked Spike; told him it wasn't real.

What: this?

This gorgeous, generous thing, Riley had done for him, after the way he'd been acting up – it couldn't be real, how could it? Riley had fooled him once today; made a fool of him, with his covert beer-moving operations. Riley Finn, master of distraction techniques. Spike was suddenly doused in ice water again.

Suspicious: even now.

Hating himself for it.

His guts knotted painfully

Did he _have_ to ruin everything for himself?

His voice icy, he said, "Now I _know_ you'd like to bend over that bed for me, wouldn't you? Let me take that sweet arse of yours – give you a damn good seeing to?"

It was mean and crude, but Riley didn't balk; didn't falter; even held his breath, as though he feared that permission might be denied him.

"Oh … yes … please, Spike."

He said it with such humility that – again – Spike couldn't trust it. He could still hear the voice in his head; the worm in the apple. The irrational fear that Riley might _still_ be deceiving him nearly doubled him over.

His jaw clenched, Spike took Riley's hand, yanked him up from the floor, and led him to the bed. Riley bent over and Spike held him down, his hand on Riley's lower back, just above the chaps, above the outward curve of his buttocks.

Spike landed a light, contemptuous slap on Riley's behind. "Whose is this?"

Riley's response was wholehearted. "Yours, Spike."

Spike let out low hum of satisfaction. His head on one side, he licked a finger and began to run it around Riley's arse, following the outline of the chaps.

Riley's breathing was shallow; his thighs were tense and shaking; but Spike just went on tracing, following the edge of the leather, sometimes doubling back, sometimes returning to the original direction. Then Spike began to trail fingertips across Riley's arse, criss-crossing or spidering over the sensitised skin, or just brushing across the tips of the soft hairs, and Riley opened himself more, letting out a moan whenever Spike changed tactics; as more fingers were deployed, touching or stroking him lightly wherever they wanted, then moving away.

"Whose is this?"

"Yours, Spike."

Spike licked his thumb and rubbed it across Riley's entrance. "And this?"

"God, Spike, yours."

Spike's thumb went on teasing, and Riley was lost, murmuring, "Please … yours …" as he flexed and strained for Spike's touch, and all Spike knew was that he was tight and harder for Riley than he'd ever been before, and he wanted in, but not yet, not yet …

He would have him.

But first, Riley had to want him more. Spike would make Riley want him more. More than Spike wanted him.

Was that even possible?

He rubbed his knuckles over Riley's hole and Riley spread his legs wider and whispered an urgent, _**"Please."**_

The demon blazing in his eyes, the only mercy Spike showed was to wet two fingers with saliva before burying them in Riley's heat, demanding hoarsely – because he had to know – "And what of your friend Todd?"

Riley jerked in protest. "No! He's nothing!" Almost sobbing, he pressed back onto Spike's hand. "You, I want you."

Spike felt a cold thrill run through him. Could he go lower than this?

"Sure? Sure it's me you want?"

He took his fingers away – left Riley crying out, thrusting back helplessly on empty air.

"Oh, God, Spike, please … yours … I'm yours …"

Spike came then, untouched, and dropped – almost fainting – to his knees. He held onto Riley's warm, solid leather-clad thighs and they shook under his touch, as he was shaking. He pressed his forehead against the tawny skin in front of him, as if in prayer, kneading with his thumbs, with his fingers, with his palms –

"Spike, I can't …"

"Don't hold back love," Spike said softly. He spread Riley with both hands; flicked him with his tongue, flicked his ring again and again.

Riley cried out and began to come so hard he could hardly breathe, and Spike pushed a finger inside, and then another, still kissing and stroking with his lips and tongue, using his other hand to help Riley spill his load.

It was hard, not to sink his fangs into Riley's arse; Riley would let him: would beg him to, if he thought of it, but Riley didn't deserve that, and Spike feared that if he gave in, drank from that source of rapture now, he might never let go.

"Please Spike –"

He couldn't believe he'd ever doubted Riley. Riley Finn, bending over for him; exposing himself so utterly; giving himself so completely; strong, warm-hearted, vulnerable and God, so very hot; his head bowed on his arms, his whole body shaking – for him.

It was almost more than Spike could bear.

Even now Riley was begging to be taken, as though Spike _wasn't_ a worthless, loathsome shit for holding him to ransom: making him deny his friend.

Spike was sure, then, that he was never going to be good enough; but he'd be damned if he wasn't gonna try, every day of his life.

He reached for Riley's dick and took him in hand again, taking time to praise him; calling him, 'my love', 'my heart', 'my everything'; stroking him inside and out until both of them were hard once more.

Then Spike used Riley's recent spill to slick himself. He dragged his fingers out, slowly, so slowly and Riley made a small despairing sound that made Spike's dead heart throb with pride.

As he positioned himself, as he pressed in, Riley said softly, "Oh, thank God …"

A blush spread under Riley's tan as Spike filled him; took him, and gave him what he needed at last.

~~

Spike collapsed over Riley's broad back, resting his cheek on Riley's shoulders, idly petting Riley's neck.

Riley whispered, "That's nice."

Looking down at the alabaster whiteness of his own hips and thighs still pressed against the gold of Riley's buttocks, Spike murmured, "Land of milk and honey. Hope I can stay."

Riley opened his eyes and turned to Spike, with an expression of smouldering contentment. "Huh?"

"Hmmm, nothing mate, just gettin' all sappy …"

"Tell me."

"Promise me something, love?"

"Anything, Spike. Anything you want."

"Don't let me …" Spike swallowed. "Don't let me get myself kicked out of paradise?"

Sleepily, Riley said, "What? How d'you mean?"

"Promise me … you won't let me drive you away."

"I live here, Spike."

Spike had to sigh at how literal Iowa Boy could be.

"But if _you_ leave," Riley went on. "I'll be going with you, if you'll let me."

Spike closed his eyes. "You love me," he accused Riley with quiet confidence.

Riley's eyes too, were closed, as he confessed, "I love you, Spike. More than you'll ever believe."

"Hmmm," Spike murmured. "That might just be enough …"


	9. Looking for a Mission

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spike decides he needs to get out more.

For a week after that, when Riley came home from the fields, he didn't sit on the porch and shoot the breeze with Todd and his dad, as he normally would. Not that Spike had tried to lay down the law about it, but Riley was determined to devote all his time and attention to Spike: at least until they were on firmer ground.

So every evening when he downed tools, he went straight to the cabin.

And every evening, as soon as he got there, Spike placed a cold beer in his hand and cleaved to him like a treed cat to a fireman.

Riley was ashamed to admit it, but it was nice: better than. He'd never been treated this way in his life before; like he was the sun, the moon and stars; like he was a king. But although it made him feel ten feet tall, after a few days, it was starting to freak him out.

Only once – when Spike handed him his beer and knelt before him on the wooden floor – did he work up the nerve to protest his deification.

"Spike, you don't have to –"

But Spike put a finger to Riley's lips. "Want to," he insisted.

Though Spike's chin was raised in defiance, there was fear in his eyes as well, and Riley knew better than to remark on it, however much he hated to see it. These last few days, Spike had seemed so brittle – so unpredictable; maybe it was best not to rock the boat. So he continued to let Spike make up to him, for whatever it was that he thought he'd done wrong.

Pamper him.

Do things for him.

Such things …

Riley went to work in a daze; got hard while feeding the stock, or operating the forklift, just from thinking about the night before … the night ahead. More than once, his dad had to snap his fingers in front of his face to get his attention back on the job. A working farm was no place to zone out.

Todd was keeping his distance. He must have sensed – from Riley's distracted air and mooncalf expression – that his company wasn't needed just now; he wouldn't have needed calculus to work it out. Even after a couple of weeks, when things were starting to go back to normal, Todd didn't stay after work.

To Riley's surprise, this made Spike tense up all over again.

"What's wrong with him?" Spike demanded, scowling. He reached for his pack of cigarettes. "You two fell out?"

"No, we haven't fallen out," Riley said, exasperated. "I thought you'd be pleased he wasn't around so much."

"Depends on why." Spike looked at him sideways. "Bugger!" His shaking fingers had dropped a lit match on his jeans. He slapped at it. "You tell him I got in a snit over him?"

So that was it.

"'Course not." Riley punched Spike on the arm. "Anything that happens between you and me stays that way, unless you say otherwise. I'm no tell-tale."

Mollified, Spike shrugged. "Just … wouldn't want you to look whipped, is all."

"Don't worry. No one thinks that. And if they do – well, I'd rather be whipped by you than anyone else."

Riley grinned a little sheepishly, as his imagination went wandering off the track.

"Would you, now?" Spike's eyes flashed. "There's me thinkin' you were so innocent. Hope I'm not corrupting you."

Riley pressed against him. "I was a nun until I met you," he said in a sultry growl, and kissed Spike thoroughly.

~~

A few nights later, Riley had just nodded a brief goodbye to Todd when Spike called from the porch, "Hey, Todd. Haven't seen you round lately." Spike brandished three beers. "There's one here for you, if you want."

Riley's mouth dropped open. He shook his head and shot a bemused half-smile at the beautiful contrary bastard that shared his bed. No one could say Spike didn't keep him interested.

Spike must have been doing some homework, because he spent the next half hour talking to Todd about the merits of various country music artists. Riley didn't know half the names that Spike was bandying about like they were old favourites of his. When Spike started getting technical about guitar fingering styles, Riley couldn't keep quiet any longer.

"Where's all this comin' from Spike?" he rounded on him jokingly. "You don't even like country and western."

Spike grinned. "Sod all else on the radio round here, and your CD collection is somewhat –" he pursed his lips "– challenged."

Todd snorted beer out of his nose.

Riley grunted reluctant acknowledgement. He didn't have much of a collection apart from a few standards and things people had given him, and there hadn't been time to cultivate musical taste in the army, especially once he had acquired a load of TA work as well.

"Well, you have a point, but it's hardly my fault," Riley protested. "I seem to recall you promising to work on my musical education, and I haven't had a single lesson yet. It's about time we got started." On impulse, he added, "Why don't you order some CDs online? Stuff _you_ like. You know where my credit card is."

As soon as the words were spoken, Riley realised how huge that was: not for him, but for Spike. It hadn't seemed huge when he'd thought it, but saying it out loud made him realise that up until now, Spike had had nothing: no resources. Riley had been acting as quartermaster by default, leaving Spike in the awkward position of having to ask for everything, or wait until Riley noticed he was in need. Not that Spike had complained, but Riley was pissed at himself for his thoughtlessness in letting the situation go on for so long.

"Thanks." Spike tilted his head. "You got a deal."

When Riley met Spike's gaze he wondered whether he was going to live through tonight.

Todd must have noticed the change in pressure, because he clearly didn't know where to look. He got up, brushed himself down, scratched the back of his neck, and said "Well, I'd best get off home."

Barely noticing Todd's departure, they sat in silence, both wondering what came next.

Spike looked like there was something on his mind, but the credit card thing had derailed his train of thought. Riley waited; Spike stood up, lit a cigarette, smoked the whole thing and lit another, as though they were essential to rational discourse.

Then he took a deep breath before saying, "Not a bad bloke, that Todd."

Riley swallowed, suddenly a little afraid to find out where this was leading. Spike was mighty friendly with Todd all of a sudden. Riley very much hoped Spike wasn't going to suggest what _he'd_ just thought of. Surely not. Spike really had corrupted him if he was thinking things like that.

Trying to keep his heart from speeding up too much, he managed to croak, "No. He's okay. Good, hard worker …"

Spike was leaning over the rail, just under the shade, as though he was daring the setting sun to do its worst. "I've made a decision."

This didn't sound good. "Okay …" Really nervous now, Riley stood up straight, waiting for the bombshell.

Spike shifted uncomfortably. "I'll need your help with it."

That sounded more reassuring; less like it was about to be followed by, 'It's not you, it's me', or, 'This isn't working out.'

Riley went and stood next to Spike, looking out at the farm cats as they woke up from their afternoon naps and lazily performed their cleaning rituals.

"Whatever I can do," Riley said.

"I need to get out more."

Well, that wasn't so hard. And mercifully, didn't involve threesomes in the hayloft, or worse still, breaking up.

"No problem. We can go to the movies, or hit a couple of bars, shoot some pool?"

"You play pool?"

Riley thrust his hands in his pockets. "No. Not well anyway," he admitted. "But you can teach me."

"Yeah, that would be nice." Spike heaved a sigh. "As well. But – I meant, on my own."

Riley had known things weren't going to carry on like they had been the last couple of weeks. How could they? But he felt like a kicked puppy and he was horribly afraid that it showed. At least Spike wasn't looking at him. That was probably a good thing.

"That thing that happened – before," Spike went on. "Over Todd. With the growling and whatall. I was out of order, I know it. But I have to find something … of my own. Stuck on the farm the whole time – it's makin' me stir crazy, 'specially with you being out all day. Need something more. Something to distract me, yeah?"

Riley felt himself curling up inside. He hadn't lived a totally sheltered life, and he'd known some guys – gay guys. Even if they were in a relationship – a good one – some of them screwed around a lot. But he'd been sure Spike wasn't like that, and _he_ sure wasn't; he'd pledged himself only for Spike, just a short time ago. As the thought took root that maybe it didn't always work both ways, his world started to collapse.

Spike's … staying power in bed – or anywhere else for that matter – was extraordinary, but Riley had hoped that he was managing to keep up. Spike hadn't complained. But maybe vampires just needed more. It choked him to say his next line.

"I don't think there's many gay bars around here."

Spike turned to face him for the first time in the conversation. His expression was appalled. "Now why on earth would I want to go to one of those?"

Riley reddened. "I dunno. Distraction?"

Spike shook his head, incredulity giving way to a soft smile. "Not that kind of distraction, you berk." He palmed Riley's cheek, and murmured, "Got more than I can handle here."

Riley blushed even more as Spike sidled into him, handled him lasciviously, and pressed a reassuring kiss on his lips.

"Well –" he gasped and leaned against the rail, as Spike moulded him with his touch. "What then?"

Spike pulled away and shrugged his shoulders up to his ears. "Just thought I'd take a look around, see if there's any demon arse to kick."

Riley was sceptical. "I know this place – oh! Quit it, Spike!"

Spike was on him again. Riley had to prise Spike's hands off him and grip him by the wrists so he could think straight for a minute. "Like I said, I've lived around here most of my life and –"

"What's that, Granddad?" Spike leered and struggled, pressing against him. "Tell me stories about the war."

Riley grinned. "As I was saying – before I was so rudely interrupted – I know this place, and I've never seen any demons of any kind. Maybe you'd find some around the bigger towns, but nowhere in easy driving distance."

"Still, maybe when you lived here before, you weren't looking out for it? Not lookin' in the right places?"

Spike's hands had somehow liberated themselves from Riley's grasp, and _they_ sure were looking in the right places.

"Hell, most of the population of Sunnydale never realised they had a fifty-fifty chance of ending up demon kibble, and they lived in Demon Central."

"Well, I guess it can't hurt to look," Riley conceded. He didn't really think Spike would find anything, but if it made him happy … "Oh!"

How many hands did this guy have? "Sure, Spike. You'll be careful, right?"

"'Course I'll be careful. But like I said, I need more than just your say-so."

"Okay, what do you need?" Riley demanded breathlessly. "Apart from bromide in your tea?"

"Need wheels."

And how did Spike manage to make the simplest request sound like sexual innuendo? Riley gasped as Spike gripped his ass, kneading and pulling him close. His eyes fell half-closed as he submitted to this manhandling.

"You can use my car whenever you want, you know that."

"Ye-ah …" Spike broke away, grimacing.

"In defence of my car, 'Hey!'" Riley punched Spike on the shoulder.

"Well, no offence mate, but it's a bit – well, how can I put this? I'm not really an SUV type."

"An 'SUV type'?" Riley frowned in mock-affront. "And I _am_, I suppose?"

"Yeah – but I won't hold it against you." Spike immediately went back to doing precisely what he'd just said he wouldn't. "And besides the style issue, I wouldn't want to risk your car gettin' trashed, or covered in mucous by a rampaging Fyarl demon, or shat on by a dragon."

"Well, good. Because if that happened, you might have to work off the cost of repairs," Riley said slyly. Then he pulled Spike in closer, murmuring, "So long as you come back safe, you can wreck every car this side of Kansas City."

~~

There was an aging red Camaro in one of the barns, and after a couple of weeks of tinkering and ordering spares off the internet, and souping-up, and painting of windows in case of getting stuck on the road in daylight, it was ready. There was a small arsenal in the trunk, and a pile of blankets on the back seat.

And Spike went out. Not every night, but once or twice a week.

Every time, Riley would try to put on a brave face while waving him off, with instructions to 'Drive carefully!' 'Stay away from mirrors!' 'Look out for traffic cops!'

Every time, he felt like his world had ended when Spike's car pulled away.

He couldn't stop Kenny Rogers from singing, 'Ruby, don't take your love to town' in his head the whole time Spike was gone. It didn't help much when he reminded himself that he wasn't a cripple, and that it wasn't Spike's love he was taking to town: just his need to make his own mark here.

Sometimes Spike came back with a gift: a chest carved with Celtic runes; a sweater; a book on Napoleon's tactics – "Thought you might be missin' it … the military life" – and once, a huge jar of pickled eggs. Riley didn't ask why there never appeared to be any charges for any of these items on his credit card. He guessed that Spike had won either some cash or the things themselves, playing cards in back rooms or hustling pool.

It didn't matter what he brought with him; every time Spike returned home, Riley was just glad to see him uninjured. But it wasn't his fighting skills that kept him in one piece. It was the total absence of any kind of demonic activity within a hundred mile radius.

"It's like a bloody anti-hell-mouth around here!" Spike ranted one night when he got home. "What's that then? Must be a Hell-arse." He shook his head, frowning. "That doesn't make much sense. What's a name for something that sucks all the demonic activity out of the area? A demonic anti-cyclone."

And Riley laughed, and was happy to let Spike take out his frustrations in other ways. But every time Spike returned, thwarted in his search, he was just a bit more tightly wound than the last.

Riley could see this couldn't go on much longer.

~~

It had been a month since the evening excursions had started.

On this particular night, Spike was still out, though usually he would have been back by now. Riley had been pacing and biting his nails and hitting the walls all evening, but it wouldn't do for Spike to come home and find him waiting up like an anxious parent. Though he knew he wouldn't sleep, Riley lay down in their bed, and – with an effort of will – closed his eyes.

It wasn't until well after midnight that Riley's eager ears heard Spike's car a way down the track. But Spike cut the engine before he got near the house, and coasted in stealthily. He opened and closed the car door with equal attempts at silence.

Still, it was late; perhaps Spike was just being considerate.

Riley let go of some of the tension and pushed himself up on his elbows, waiting to see the door open, and readying himself for the usual complaints about the lack of demon canon-fodder from his pissed-off vampire, and the compensatory sex that usually followed.

But Spike didn't come in.

Riley waited for a bit, thinking Spike might be tinkering with the Camaro, or getting something out of the trunk. But after a few moments he started to get worried again, so he quickly pulled on some clothes and went outside.

Spike's car was there, but no Spike. The lights were on in the main house though, which was odd. Out of courtesy to Sarah and Josh, Spike didn't usually go in this late.

Riley went to see what was going on. The lights were on in the bathroom, and in the kitchen. The bathroom was empty, but the door of the medicine cabinet was open and some of the contents were scattered over the floor. Riley wasn't one to panic easily, but it didn't make him feel good.

When he got to the kitchen, he saw his mom's back turned to him, and Spike sitting at the table. Sarah was dabbing at his face; it was marred by blood and contusions; one eye was completely shut. Spike flinched as Sarah cleaned a wound on his cheekbone.

Not thinking too clearly, Riley blurted, "How did this happen?"

Sarah let out a startled gasp and turned around. "Jeez, Riley, creep around like a big spook why don't you?"

Spike looked up at him with a guilty expression on his face. "Got into a scrap is all. About nothing really. Don't know how it happened."

Spike was a poor liar, but Riley didn't call him on it in front of his mom. It didn't look as though Spike had been fighting demons; more like he'd just gotten the worst of a good old-fashioned punch-up.

Riley cursed himself for letting Spike go out on his own, with the chip to prevent him defending himself.

It sure was a handicap.

They'd done plenty of digging; sent countless e-mails, and visited plush medical facilities, where the sight of the trolleys and shiny metal implements had sent chills down Spike's spine.

They'd widened their search to include struck-off surgeons, and researchers so far out in left field that their professional associations had kicked them out, as well as the more 'alternative' side of internet healthcare – herbalists, witch-doctors, amateurs who trepanned their own skulls and such like. But in all their searching, they hadn't encountered anyone that either of them was prepared to trust to remove the chip.

In the end, Spike had been more than content to let it slide; said it was safer this way. The chip hadn't been a problem up to now – not since that one time, not between them. They both knew where the weak points lay. On the rare occasions when he wasn't going to put out, Spike was careful not to tease, and they never played with any ties that Spike couldn't easily break.

But if this kind of thing was gonna happen ...

"Coffee?" Riley said, brandishing the kettle.

"Tea please, mate," Spike muttered.

Riley put the kettle on. "Who were you fighting with?"

"No one you know."

Another lie.

"You got pretty beat up," Sarah put in. "We should report it, really."

"You should see the other guys," Spike said.

Riley turned his face away. Yeah, sure Spike, we should see the other guys – not a mark on any of them. Even his mom looked unconvinced. He wondered how the fight had started. Maybe Spike had got caught cheating at cards.

At last Sarah was satisfied with her handiwork. "Don't do it again," she admonished Spike, with a pat on the arm.

"I'll try not to," Spike said sheepishly. "Sorry, Mum."

Sarah rolled her eyes, pulled her housecoat around her, kissed them both and sent them packing.

When they got back to the cabin, Spike wouldn't tell Riley much more than he'd said already. He mumbled an apology for causing a fuss and waking the household, with a codicil about having Todd to thank that he wasn't in a worse mess; but he refused to elaborate further. Realising that it was a source of embarrassment, Riley let him be.

The next day, he came at it another way; cornered Todd in the barn.

"I guess I should say 'thank you' for last night."

But Todd, too, seemed strangely evasive, especially considering he was feted as the hero of the hour. To avoid answering, he took a huge bite out of his sandwich, and chewed conspicuously.

"So what happened?" Riley spread his hands.

Todd finally swallowed. "Look, man, I dunno what the deal is with you and Spike but –"

"We're –"

"I don't _wanna_ know," Todd cut in. "He's your … whatever. He's family. 'S all I have to know." He took another shark-sized bite of his lunch.

"But _**what, happened?**_" Riley repeated, with great patience.

He could wait. He could wait until Todd had eaten every scrap of food in Iowa.

When he'd finished chewing, Todd stood up, stretched, patted his belly and looked theatrically at his watch. "Well, time to get back to work."

"Oh no you don't!" Riley laughed and gave him a friendly shove back down onto his hay bale.

Todd looked down and mumbled, "Don't like tellin' tales."

"C'mon Todd, this is me." Riley gave him an open smile. "Nothing bad will happen, I promise."

In the face of the Finn charm offensive, Todd caved. "Well, if you really wanna know, he – Spike – got himself into a fight. Wasn't his fault, not really. Some guys from Billy Karr's place – they started mouthing off. Calling him … stuff."

"What kind of stuff?"

"Stupid stuff. They were drunk. Off their heads – end of the week, you know how it is."

"Then he started a fight?" Riley said, trying to make it easy on Todd.

"No, he was pretty cool – just ignored it. Played pool with them, even." He sighed. "But he took some of them for a few bucks. That made 'em pretty mad."

"So? Then they attacked him?"

"Nah. They wanted to, but they didn't quite have the belly for it."

"_**SO**_ …?" Riley felt like he must be going red in the face.

Todd picked up a straw and started tying knots in it. "Then they started on you."

"What? How?"

"Just more name-callin'."

Riley grinned, shaking his head. "Then he hit someone!"

"No, then _I_ told 'em to watch their mouths."

Now Riley was puzzled – and a little put out.

"So what started it?"

"They … " Todd went red under his tan. "Don't like to say. Look, man, why don't you just ask Spike?"

Instinctively they both looked up.

Spike was in the doorway. "I come upon a thought," he said, with an enigmatic smile.

Todd hid a childish smirk behind his hand and muttered, "Hair-trigger, huh?"

Spike grinned at Todd and jerked a thumb over his shoulder, and Todd was more than happy to be dismissed.

Spike sauntered over to Riley. "If you really want to know what went down, it started when they called me 'David Bowie.' Hardly the most cutting or appropriate insult I've endured. Then they got even less creative and mentioned that I was a 'fuckin' foreigner', which I knew, and an 'English sonofabitch', which is only partly true."

"That got you mad."

Spike snorted. "Ever hear the phrase, 'Don't get mad, get even'? Took 'em to the cleaners. Won their week's wages off 'em – what they had left anyway."

This was worrying.

"You know, that might not have been such a good idea, Spike. I know they were in the wrong, but people round here – they're not well off, and they have long memories."

"Well, I'm sorry if I've made bad feeling for you and your folks," Spike said with a tinge of sarcasm. "But what was I supposed to do, let 'em get away with it? What would you have done?"

"I dunno. Probably would have slugged 'em – if you'd been there to see it, anyway," Riley admitted ruefully. "What happened after that?"

"Well, all the time I was taking their money, they were passing remarks about fags and weirdos. Talking about how all the freaks live out here, and get away with it."

"And you kept your cool about that?"

"Told them a fag was a cigarette where I come from. Speaking of which …" Spike patted himself down and failed to find any cigarettes. With a snort of disgust, he picked up a straw and started chewing on it. Still stalling.

_"Spike?"_ There was a warning note in Riley's voice.

"If I told you, I'd have to kill you?" Spike said, scraping the barrel.

"Will you _please, tell me_ how you got beat up?"

Spike scrunched his face up. "Do I have to?"

"Come on Spike, we're not in school." Riley grinned and pulled Spike into a bear-hug. "I'll protect you from those bullies!"

Spike smirked, trying and failing to pull free. "Fine! I'll tell you. They were talking about … your mum. Sarah. Right disrespectful some of it was and I'm not repeating what they said." He set his mouth in a stubborn line. "Don't make me."

That was unexpected. Riley held Spike away from him, trying to meet his eyes, show him how touched he was. But Spike ducked his head, as though he were even ashamed of having witnessed the insults.

"I got in some of their faces – told 'em to take it back, but they wouldn't. Then one of 'em asked me why I cared. Said I must be … you know. With her. That's when I lost it. Managed to hit one of them before the chip hit _me_. Lucky the tosser chose that moment to hit me as well, or it would have looked right weird, me goin' down like that. Then they started puttin' the boot in." He turned to leave. "Lucky for me, your mate Todd come out of the bogs, saw me on the floor, belted a couple of 'em, and dragged me out."

"We have to get that chip out," Riley said.

"Maybe. It's not like we haven't tried."

"What about Angel? He may know someone."

"Huh! Like he'd help me become a danger to society and puppies again." Spike shook his head hopelessly. "Don't need help from His Brooding Highness anyway. I'd rather have the headaches."

Nevertheless, Riley resolved to intensify his research once more.

~~

For a day or two, Riley cherished a hope that the incident would persuade Spike to give up his search for demons.

But Spike took to going out _more_ often, and it wasn't the last time Sarah had to patch him up, either. Twice more, he came back battered and furious, but refused to let Riley come with him, or dissuade him from his mission – whatever that really was.

Then one night, Riley came in to find Spike putting on eyeliner. His fingernails already sported a fresh coat of black nail polish – the first he'd put on since the stuff he'd been wearing when they arrived here had flaked off.

"Not thinking about going out tonight, are you?" Riley said, still clinging to the hope that he didn't already know the answer.

"What if I am?" Spike replied grimly.

Almost out of his mind with worry, Riley shook Spike, none too gently. "This has to stop, Spike. You can't go out like that, it's not safe, especially now you've made enemies round here."

"I'll go out _when_ I like, _where_ I like, wearing what the bloody hell I want." Spike squared his shoulders, snapped the lid back on the eyeliner and slid it into his jeans pocket. "Go out wearing lipstick and a pink tutu, and the fancy takes me."

From the look on Spike's face, he was prepared to do exactly that, if anyone tried to thwart him.

"And in case you've forgotten, _mate_, I'm four times your age. I don't need your advice on the dress code. I'm not a bloody teenager."

"Well you're acting like a teenager." Riley ran his hand through his hair, exasperated. "Are you _trying_ to get yourself killed?"

"I'm a vampire. I'll be fine."

"Okay, you're a vampire. But you're not indestructible. Why won't you let me come with you?"

"No. I don't need a sodding baby-sitter."

Really stung, Riley backed away. "Is that what you think of me? Spike, I hate that you leave me behind, like I'm just a … I dunno, an annoying pet or something. I want to be with you – whether you're hunting demons, starting pointless bar-fights or sitting at a drive-in movie. That's what I signed up for – the whole package."

"I'm a liability."

"Dressed like that, yeah, maybe you are, but I don't care. You're my liability. Please let me come with you."

"Bloody leave me alone." Spike shrugged past Riley and flung out of the door.

A few seconds later, the Camaro revved and took off, but not before Riley was getting into his SUV. Spike tore up the track and onto the main road, and Riley was close behind. To Riley's dismay, Spike was heading for the same bar where he got beat up the first time, and the time after that, and yet again it was pay day.

This was insane.

A flickering neon sign above the bar confirmed their destination; Spike pulled up with a swirl of grit and gravel and a screech of brakes, and got out of his car. He hadn't even got halfway across the parking lot before three thick-set figures came out of the shadows, armed with tire irons and a grudge. They knocked him to the ground and set about him with weapons and feet.

Riley flew out of his car almost before it had come to a halt. "Stand down!"

The 'military commander' voice got their attention. They left Spike curled up and cursing on the ground, and switched their attention to the new target.

Riley looked back at them, unflinching.

In some ways, amateurs are harder to fight. They don't really know what they're doing, and that makes them unpredictable. What they lack in skill they compensate for with enthusiasm, so if they get lucky, you really know about it. But the hardest thing is to use your skill but not all your strength; to disable your opponents temporarily, not kill or cripple them, which is what you want to do, when you see your partner lying bruised and bloodied in the dirt.

In other ways, it's easy.

Once they've committed themselves, it's easy to dodge the haymaker, the telegraphed blow. Easy to catch hold of the improvised weapon, wrench it from your opponent's grip, and use it to smack him across the chest; send him careening backwards into his companions, who quickly scramble to their feet, backing off when they see they're up against a real pro.

Just as it would be easy not to let them get away with it – to leave every one of them immobilised and in agony.

Shaking with repressed rage, Riley threw a tire iron at their retreating backs and quickly covered the few yards to where Spike lay.

"What are you doin' here?" Spike demanded.

"Saving your stupid ass, what d'you think I'm doin'?"

"I told you, I can look after myself."

Riley shook his head, almost laughing at the craziness that was Spike. "Yeah, so I see."

He reached to help Spike to his feet, but had his hand slapped away for his pains. Spike levered himself to his feet and started to limp towards the bar room door.

"Spike! Where are you going?"

"Going for a drink, where d'you think?"

Riley strode after him, expecting to catch him easily, but Spike must have been playing up how hurt he was, because before Riley was on him, he jinked off to the left and high-tailed it into the trees at the edge of the lot.

Caught out, Riley started after him, but Spike quickly disappeared into the undergrowth. Riley cursed and ran back to his vehicle to get his Mag-Lite.

But he needn't have worried Spike would evade him in the dark; the vampire wasn't on silent running just now. Riley just had to head towards the sounds of breaking branches and muffled profanities. He couldn't translate all of them, but they told him exactly where Spike was located.

There was a crash up ahead.

Riley hurtled out into the open just as Spike aimed another kick at a fence post, splintering it, and getting the tails of his coat even more snagged on the barbed wire fence than they were already.

"Fuck! Bloody fuck! God I hate this place!"

Spike, tangling with broken wooden fence posts, was something that sounded warning bells in Riley's head. "Hey! Keep still. Let me help you."

Spike glared into the flashlight, shielding his eyes. The harsh light picked out the ridges of his demon face. He looked like a wild beast at bay.

"Don't need your help!" he rasped out through clenched fangs, as he lashed out again. This time a sleeve got caught, and he struggled and thrashed, getting more and more trapped. "Bloody hell! My bloody coat!"

Riley wouldn't have been surprised to see flames and smoke pouring from his mouth and nose. "You won't get out of there by struggling and kicking."

"What, a bloody expert on fencing now, are you?" Spike spat back at him.

Riley thought it probably best not to point out that, yes, he knew quite a bit about fencing. He just said calmly, "Take it off."

_**"What?"**_

"Take your coat off. It'll be easier to get it off the barbed wire if you're not in it."

Spike took a moment to process this.

The logic was inescapable. Turning on a sixpence, Spike shrugged out of his coat, as though it had been his idea all along.

Riley went over to where the coat was stretched out on the wire, like a huge bat that had flown into it and got its wings caught on the barbs. Half-expecting to be bitten, he held his flashlight out to Spike at arm's length. "Here, hold this for me, I'll save your –"

"Fucking! Fences!"

Unencumbered now by his duster, Spike set about the next few fence posts, tearing them up and kicking them to matchwood.

"Spike, will you please quit it?" Riley's jaw was set in a grim line as he fought to keep his temper, and got to work disentangling the coat from the jangling wire. "You're just makin' it harder."

"Fences! Wire! Bloody! Fields!"

With each word Spike destroyed another bit of the fence, and when Riley finally got the coat free, he looked up to find that a significant stretch of the perimeter was down.

"Spike, stop that. There could be stock in this field."

"Like I bloody care!" Spike snapped back.

Riley took a deep breath and said, with as much patience as he could muster, "I've got your coat – no thanks to you. Now get in the car."

"Don't bloody tell me what to do, I'm not in your bleedin' army."

"What are you gonna do then? Destroy the whole fence?"

Spike considered. "No, actually, think I'll go back for that drink." Promptly dropping out of game-face, he came towards Riley. "I'll take my coat, thanks." He snatched it off Riley's arm.

Still fired up with adrenalin, Riley caught hold of Spike's wrist and jerked him back. "Nu-uh. You've got into enough trouble for one night."

"Fuck off!" Spike tried to pull away.

"Gonna fight me too, Spike?"

"What if I am?" Spike pulled free and stood facing off with Riley.

Riley sighed, shook his head sadly and made a gesture of helpless defeat with his hands. Then he knocked Spike unconscious with a well-placed upper-cut. He caught the surprisingly-light vampire as he fell, carried him to the SUV, and locked him in.

Then he went back to repair the fence as best he could.

~~

When Riley got back to the car, Spike still appeared to be out for the count, but Riley knew better; he hadn't hit Spike that hard.

He sat quietly for a few moments, letting it appear that his attention was absorbed in picking splinters out of his fingers and thumbs, and dabbing at cuts from the barbed wire with a Kleenex. Once, when he hissed softly in pain, he saw Spike flinch.

He dropped the tissue on the floor, and looked across at Spike. "Thanks for not trashing my car."

Reluctantly, Spike opened his eyes and hauled himself into a more upright position.

Riley waited a moment to see whether the icy silence was going to crack any time soon, but Spike didn't even look at him; just stared sullenly straight ahead out of the front windscreen.

Riley started the car.

Spike pointedly unbuckled his seatbelt, and sat in silence throughout the drive home, hugging his wounded coat to his chest. He didn't bother to ask what was to be done about the Camaro. Still in the bar's parking lot, it would probably be burning merrily by now.

When they got inside, though Riley had the med-kit out for his own use, Spike refused to let Riley treat, or even look at his injuries. He made light of them, with clipped, dismissive sentences. He got into bed and lay with his back turned against Riley. Every time he shifted his position, he winced, and his breathing was ragged.

Wanting so much to reach Spike, Riley shuffled up close, trying not to jog him in case anything was broken, and spooned up to him. Spike felt cold: even colder than usual. He was shaking.

Riley stroked his head. "Wish I knew what was goin' on in there."

"No," Spike said between clenched teeth. "You really don't."

Later, when Spike seemed a little quieter, Riley put his hand on Spike's shoulder and petted him, hoping to soothe him – help him get to sleep – but as he ran his hand down Spike's arm, he was taken aback. Spike was demonstrating control over his body that could only be attributed to his being a vampire. Though he seemed perfectly still, Spike was fisting his own dick with quiet desperation.

Riley placed his hand over Spike's. "Here, let me –"

Spike froze in his arms. "I can still do _that_ for myself thanks all the same," he gritted out. "Not totally helpless."

"I know that. But you don't have to …"

Riley positioned himself over Spike: taking the weight on his arms but pressing his own erection against Spike's hand, trying to change his mind; trying to gentle him; persuade him with soft, urgent touches to open up, and let them both get some relief.

Spike didn't fight him, but when Riley tried to kiss him on the mouth, he turned his head away.

Riley was hard, and ashamed of it, and his heart was breaking. He rolled onto his back, beaten.

They lay there in silence: one furious, the other in despair.

After a while – he didn't know how long, except that it felt like the blackness after eternity ends – Riley got out of bed, and pulled on some clothes. "Goin' out," he said. "Not far. I'll be … long enough."

He left the cabin. At least this way, Spike could have some privacy to tend to his wounds for himself; jerk off if he wanted, without having to hold anything back.

Riley retreated to the stables – his usual refuge from the monsters. Though he tried to shut the door quietly, it still took the brunt of his frustration and managed to slam itself behind him.

He leaned over the half-door to the loose box, but the horses had been spooked by the noise. On the flat of his hand, he held out some pony treats that he found stashed in his jeans pocket. The wary herd eyed them covetously but stayed pressed against the far wall. Even the big grey he was so fond of wouldn't come near him.

Riley slumped down on a hay bale, and put his head in his hands. He had to wonder what he'd done to have gotten so popular all of a sudden.

Had Spike really meant what he'd said? That he hated it here?

When they left the Initiative behind, Riley hadn't thought about it – just headed for home as soon as his discharge papers were in his hand. It had seemed the obvious place to go. It hurt and confused him to think that he'd brought Spike somewhere that was so unbearable for him. So unbearable – maybe – that he had to go out and get himself beaten up, to forget the pain inside.

Dully aware that it was too late at night to be thinking this through, he was grateful when he felt a consoling presence, pressing against his leg.

"Jess." He stroked the collie's hard head.

She butted him with it, then licked his hand.

"At least you still like me."

You could rely on dogs, when you were down. Horses or dogs … he'd often tried to work out which he liked best. Dogs – well, you had to be a monster not to love 'em. Horses – they were much harder work: so rewarding when you got it right though. As for unicorns …

After a while, he was aware of warm breath on his neck, and looked up to see a long grey nose, scenting the air near him. He held out the pony treats for his horse.

~~

When he returned to the cabin half an hour later, Spike was lying on his side: a little less stiff than before, and seemingly asleep, but Riley could tell that once again, he was faking.

Softly, Riley said, "Spike … I'm tryin.' Really tryin.' But you have to help me. Please."

Riley thought he felt Spike relax just a little, and – though saying it made him more sad than he'd been in a long time – he added, in a whisper, "We don't have to stay here. Not if you hate it so much."

They lay in the dark, neither of them sleeping until it started to get light.

~~

Riley killed the alarm just before it went off. He rolled out of bed with a groan, which he quickly stifled when he saw that Spike was really asleep now, twitching slightly and batting at the air with the hand that hung out over the edge of the bed. Spike's injuries from the barbed wire were already half-healed, but he was making little whimpering sounds, as though they were still hurting him.

Riley stroked his hair.

It didn't quieten him at all.

Thinking that maybe it was best to leave the creature of the night to sleep it off, Riley went to the kitchen in the main house. Mercifully, it was deserted, so he made himself a coffee.

After that, he spent all morning in the barn, moving hay bales and sacks of feed and seed, making room for an order that was coming in that afternoon. He was glad the forklift was out of action; the manual labour was calming in a way little else would have been. But when he had everything moved and stacked, he was still nowhere near ready to go out and face the world, so he picked up a pitchfork and poked viciously at the hay bales, trying to make sense of things; think a way around them, or through them.

The predicament had them both in a vice, and it was really starting to pinch. Spike's need to fight was at war with their need to be able to live among regular people. With the chip, he was prey to any non-demon who came along. If they got it out, he could be a predator. But even predators managed to get along didn't they? Didn't prey on their own kind – their families?

His folks would be safe, he was sure of that. Spike had said so. But they weren't the only people he'd meet. If Spike couldn't – or wouldn't – control his impulses, if he decided everyone else was fair game, then the two of them might not be able to stay in one place for long.

If it was what Spike wanted, or needed him to do, he'd leave; give up this life; only see his family at Thanksgiving and Christmas; call them when he could, from wherever they happened to be staying. He'd been doing that while he was in the army, the Initiative, hadn't he? It hadn't been so hard. But then, he'd always known he could come back whenever he wanted.

Never contemplated drifting his whole life …

"Guess the honeymoon's over then?"

Riley's dad's voice jerked him out of his contemplative forking of innocent hay bales.

"Guess so," he admitted, his voice hitching. He wondered how long his dad had been watching him, and readied himself for a fight; for his dad to tell him this nonsense had gone on long enough; that he should find himself a nice girl and settle down.

He should have known better.

"First couple years – they can be tricky," his dad said. "We all get rough patches."

Riley felt a lump rising in his throat. He swallowed. "We'll work it out."

"You will. Just keep pluggin'." Josh frowned at his choice of words. "Fix things. Doesn't much matter how you do it. Don't matter who's to blame. Work out the whys and wherefores later on, if you need to, but fix it. Don't let the sun go down on your wrath."

Riley nodded, but no words came to mind, and anyway, he didn't trust himself to speak. His eyes were stinging.

"And go home. 'Cause if you think you're any use to me in this state, think again."

"Thanks, Dad."

Riley propped his pitchfork against the wall and beat a hasty retreat.

~~

Josh sighed, shook his head, and began moving the bales to where they weren't blocking the main doors.

~~

Spike hadn't woken until mid-morning.

Riley was gone.

Well, of course he was.

Spike had planned on saying something. He didn't know what, but it was too late now.

Last night, he'd told Riley to fuck off.

He wanted so badly to take it back that the want was like a constant pain in his guts.

One thing he didn't want was to be alone with his thoughts, so he got dressed and slunk over to the main house to look for Sarah.

He found her sitting on the kitchen table, reading. She looked up with guilt in her eyes, as if she was expecting to be told off for sitting on a surface where food was served, or for idling in the middle of the day.

She relaxed when she saw who it was. "Hey, Spike."

It was an effort, but Spike worked up the energy to ask, "What you reading?"

"It's just some poetry," she admitted. "Frost. 'Stopping by Woods …', 'The Road Not Taken', that kind of thing." She waved the book in the air, keeping the place with her finger. "Kinda cheesy I know."

"I've heard worse," Spike said. He wanted to confess, 'I've written worse', but he didn't think he could face the worms that would come crawling out of that open can. "Any chance of a cuppa?"

"Of course, Spike."

She slid down off the table and put the kettle on. She looked puzzled; probably wondering why he felt the need to ask, rather than just making one himself, like he usually did. He couldn't have told her why if she'd asked him.

As she got the cups ready she asked, "Do you ever think about that stuff? You know, those turning points … what would have happened if you'd taken the road less travelled and fallen off a cliff, that kind of thing?"

Spike snorted at her joke – it made him want to laugh and cry at the same time. A picture show of his life ran through his mind, stopping briefly at the turning points he couldn't forget.

An encounter in a cobbled yard that had turned his day into night.

A caravan where he and Dru ate the family of the gypsy that might otherwise have returned Angel to his un-souled state.

A pipe organ shattering his spine.

Walking side by side with the Slayer, and – later – blubbing into his hot chocolate while her mum offered sympathy.

Returning to Sunnydale for no good reason and getting his guts ripped open and his mind violated by the Initiative.

Wearily he gave her the précis: "You have no idea …"

She turned and leaned back against the counter, subjecting him to a searching gaze.

Spike lowered his head. He must look a wreck; there'd be shadows under his eyes, and fading bruises from last night's little exercise in futility. When Sarah beckoned him over, he walked stiffly to disguise a limp; went to her, as though on a string, and allowed her to touch his face with soft fingertips.

"Oh Spike … Riley –?"

"No!" Spike sniffed. It was near-enough true. "Deserve it though. If he had."

Putting a hand on his elbow, she continued to study him. "What's wrong honey?"

The unwarranted endearment made him gulp. "Dunno. Devil in me I guess – tryin' to ruin it for myself."

She licked her finger and rubbed it under his right eye, cleaning a smudge of eyeliner from his cheekbone. Spike felt about six years old. Then she took hold of his hand and looked at his fingernails – the nail polish already fucked up from his argument with the fence.

"Testing the boundaries?" she said, her voice compassionate.

"Could say that. Testin' 'em to destruction if I don't watch it."

She turned his hand over and looked at him questioningly when she saw the wounds on the palms of his hands.

"Takin' that boundary thing a bit literally," he muttered.

She patted him on the flank. "We all do it … whether it's a stone wall, razor wire or a picket fence. It hurts sometimes, but we have to test them – otherwise we don't know who we are, or where we stand."

He closed his eyes and rested his head on her shoulder, breathing deeply.

The kettle boiled.

He turned away, dragging his hand across his nose, and she made tea, pretending not to see.

They drank in companionable silence.

When he'd finished, Spike sniffed, and said as firmly as he could manage, "Best get out of your way then."

Sarah shook her head reprovingly. "You're never in my way."

He could almost bring himself to believe her. As he stood in the doorway looking down at his boots, Spike asked, "So, what do you do? When you come up against the razor wire?"

"Personally?" She smiled softly. "I'd put flowers on it."

~~

Spike felt more calm when he got back to the cabin. Then he thought about what she'd said: 'Put flowers on it.' What did that even mean? Okay, it was a very pretty homespun metaphor she'd cooked up on the fly, but how did you put it into practice? Not like he could skip off outside and pick Riley a nice bunch of daffs, and make everything better.

He swept the cabin with his gaze, trying to think of something – anything – he could do for Riley; something like buying him flowers, but more – bloke-y.

Couldn't see anything.

Riley kept his own things all ship-shape; did his own laundry; he could cook, clean, iron; did everything for himself quickly and efficiently, and never made a fuss about it. That's what being in the army did for you.

Riley didn't need him for anything.

The only stuff that spoiled the Spartan look of the place belonged to Spike.

Beyond depressed, Spike went to tidy up some of his own clothes and put some CDs back in their cases. Out loud, he proclaimed, "Behold the pathetic-ness that is the Big Bad." Then he flung a handful of CDs across the room; they clattered against the wall.

There was only one thing Riley needed from him; one thing he couldn't get anywhere else – not with any kind of safety. So Spike stripped, and sat on the bed, naked and game-faced; angry with himself for being a useless waste of space; angry with Riley for – what? He didn't know what.

For being perfect.

For being worthy of so much more than he could give him. For being so bleedin' understanding, which just made him – Spike – feel like even more of a heel.

He switched on the TV, hoping for distraction, and started flicking channels, but it was all bollocks. With a growl of frustration, he threw the remote at the TV – not quite hard enough to smash the screen – and sat there, his whole being a tight knot of anger, fear and shame, sullenly watching whatever load of bullshit came on, and stubbornly refusing to pick up the remote again, though there was no one there to see whether he did or no.

~~

There was a knock on the cabin door; Spike nearly jumped out of his skin. He'd been almost catatonic, with the turmoil in his head. He covered his nakedness with a corner of the sheet.

"Who is it?" he said suspiciously.

"It's just me," Riley said, from the other side of the door.

Irritated beyond measure and flayed with guilt, Spike whined, "Why are you knocking? You live here."

Of course; he knew why. Riley didn't want to walk in on him if he was 'debasing the beef canoe' in the words of Dalton's unfortunate error in translation. But why in God's name did he have to be so bloody considerate?

Riley opened the door. "I just thought –"

"Yeah, I know what you thought," Spike said wearily. "But you're quite safe. I don't spend my whole day doin' that."

He looked up, and stood up, dropping the sheet, because he couldn't be bothered with niceties. He planted himself in Riley's way, half-erect, half defiant, brow ridges still swollen and fangs itching.

"You're early aren't you? Come to check up on me? Make sure I'm not … I dunno … runnin' with scissors?"

Even the sniping was almost too much like hard work.

Riley took a step towards him. "No. I just missed you."

Spike shoved him away, hard. "Well I didn't miss you."

He closed his slotted eyes to hide the lie. Why was he saying these things? His heart hurt. He ached just to let Riley take him in those strong arms and hold him. He ached to lean his head on Riley's chest, and to say, 'Sorry, sorry, sorry,' until the words ran dry.

But it wasn't possible.

He sensed that Riley had taken a step closer to him, so he put a hand out, pushing him back once again, then opened his eyes and looked up at Riley, challenging.

Riley moved in again: not so close as before, just enough to press against Spike's hand which was still holding him off.

What was Iowa Boy playin' at? Coming towards him inexorably, like one of those TV monsters you can't possibly escape, even though they only move at two miles per hour, then just standing there, like the proverbial immovable object. Spike took a step back, trying to keep the same distance between them, but Riley moved forward at the same time and took hold of Spike's arm.

"Hey, come on …"

Spike shrugged off the controlling hand, more puzzled now, than angry.

Riley just put his hand right back where it had been, but not holding this time, just resting. Spike flinched but suffered it to remain there, returning Riley's gaze with steady obstinacy.

Then the hand was gone; why was it gone?

Spike shivered and looked down at the floor, bereft.

Oh. There it was again, holding him, again; anchoring him.

But Riley was trying to edge him towards the bed, and it was too soon … much too soon.

Spike pulled free, and sidled away, towards the fridge. He got out a pack of blood.

"Hey, get me a beer while you're there?"

It was a reasonable request. As though he hadn't heard it, Spike continued emptying the blood into a mug and set it in the microwave to warm. Then he got a beer and placed it on the coffee table, pretending he hadn't noticed that Riley was reaching out a hand to accept it.

There was a metallic 'Ding!' from the microwave.

Spike got the mug out and swigged the contents down without ceremony, leaving a little blood on his upper lip.

He licked it clean, watching Riley watching him.

Riley came closer again, moving like he was trying to hit his mark for some invisible cameraman. He was holding the beer bottle out to him; Spike gingerly accepted it. He downed half the contents, then offered it back.

Riley took it, brushing his hand against Spike's fingers as he did so; Spike knew it was intentional, and knew that Riley had intended he should.

Spike lowered his gaze.

Riley finished off the bottle then put it down and offered Spike his open hand: his left – the one that bore the scars from where Spike used to feed.

"I've just eaten," Spike muttered, dismissing it.

"That's not why my hand is there," Riley replied calmly.

Spike snorted and looked away.

When he looked back, Riley was stood as before, offering his hand.

Spike turned his head away again, but reached out and let his fingers touch Riley's, pressing against them slightly; Riley let out a breath that shook his whole body.

Now Spike felt Riley's fingers closing around his, trying to draw him in, and he pulled back a little, almost letting his fingers slip away from Riley's – but not quite.

Then Riley backed off a little, and Spike had to take a step forward if he wanted to retain contact at all.

He did.

He did want it; he wanted it very badly.

He took a small step forward and now he let the flat of his hand rest against Riley's.

They stood for a moment, palm to palm.

Then Riley took his hand, sat down on the bed, and drew Spike's fingertips towards him, kissing them one by one. Spike moaned softly, deep in his throat. Riley's thumb was caressing his palm, and now his wrist. He sank down on the bed beside Riley and leaned into him with a sigh, resting his furrowed brow on Riley's shoulder.

"'M broken, Riley," he rasped out. "Bloody fix me."

He covered his face with his hands, and soon Riley's arms were around him, hardly touching him, as though for fear that he might bolt.

"I want to. I will," Riley promised, infinite sympathy in his voice. He took one of Spike's hands, kissed it, and put his own against Spike's face, touching the bruises softly. "Sorry … Sorry I hit you last night."

"'S okay. Needed it," Spike mumbled. "For my own good."

"I should have found a better way." Riley moved in to kiss Spike on the lips.

Still in game-face, Spike swayed back and turned away. "You don't want me like this."

"Yes. I do."

"'M not gonna feed from you," Spike asserted once more, tilting his chin up.

"I know."

Spike looked up from the fiery depths of his demon heart, pained, confused and fearful.

"What if I said I'd never –"

"I won't stop loving you, Spike. Don't care how hard you try to make me."

Riley laid a hand on Spike's chest, gently coaxing him to lie back; Spike resisted him all the way – just not quite enough to prevent Riley from flattening him to the bed.

Then he was being kissed on the throat; kissed on the forehead – God, that was like fireworks in his brain; kissed on the mouth so that blood from Riley's cut lip landed on his tongue, whether he wanted it or not.

Such sweet, sweet blood.

Didn't need stripping, he was naked already, but Riley ran his hands up his ribs, and down his thighs as though undressing him all the same and now he really was naked.

Breath whistled through his teeth.

"Don't know …" Spike said softly, between whimpers of relief as Riley laid hands on him. "You're so good to me. Don't know why I do it."

"Shhh. We'll be okay."

Reluctantly Spike raised himself on his elbows, shaking his head. "How can you say that? How can you just say 'it'll be okay'? Somethin's wrong with me. Spent most of my life thinkin' the world owes me a living, and now it's offered me on a plate, I'm tryin' to fuck it up. Throwing my toys out the pram."

Riley threw himself down beside Spike and looked steadily at him, stroking his cheek and brushing hair off his face. "Don't worry," he said softly. "I'll pick up your toys for you …"

Riley kissed his eyes, and Spike was stilled, as if under a spell, as he listened to Riley, dreamily promising him the moon on a stick.

"… and if they got broken, I'll buy you new ones. You'll have the best toys in the neighbourhood. Nintendo, or whatever the cool kids are playin' with these days – or, hey, how about a skateboard?"

Maybe a little homespun metaphor didn't hurt every now and then.

Spike felt tears coming as he laughed at the big lunk looking at him so joyfully, so full of hope and certainty, despite everything that had happened; everything he'd said and done over the last few days.

He felt the coarse denim of Riley's jeans-clad thigh press between his own and rubbed himself against the pressure, then gripped onto him at last, in a full-body caress.

Then he was being pushed him onto his back again, and Riley was braced above him, smelling of hay and sun-warmed skin; looking down at his erection with unabashed desire. Riley dipped his head towards it, then looked up again to meet his gaze.

"May I?" he said.

Spike felt something inside him melt; he nearly came, and Riley, taking that as a 'yes', made him come twice: in his mouth and then in his hand, watching him, before taking him – wrists held above his head – unresisting now, and not turning his face away.

~~


	10. Working for the Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spike gets a job.  
> Riley gets a present.

"No, don't," Spike moaned softly. "It wasn't me …"

Riley nudged Spike gently, and Spike surfaced. He looked around, disoriented for a second or two, until he spotted the mug of tea on the bedside cabinet.

"Oh. Thanks, love." He reached for the mug and took a gulp of tea. "God, I needed that."

"Glad to oblige," Riley said.

A shadow passed over Spike's face. Meek and tousled, he looked up at Riley from the tangle of sheets and quilts and pushed himself higher on the pillows, his knees and elbows at all angles, like a newborn colt.

"Didn't mean it – what I said. 'Bout hating it here." He rubbed sleep out of his eyes. "Love your mum, you know that – and your dad's okay. And this place – the way you got it set up? 'S perfect for us. I got no cause to complain."

His retraction was sincere in intention, but the doubt written in the creases on his brow was painfully obvious now Riley was looking for it.

"I know." Riley tangled fingers in Spike's hair. "You were just frustrated. I would be too. I can't keep you here forever – I see that now."

"What?"

Spike jerked as if he'd been burned. "Tune's changed a bit since last night." He pulled the covers around himself. "Can't hardly say I blame you. I'm not exactly an asset to the abbey."

"No! That's not what I meant." Riley was shocked to realise that Spike must have thought he was about to be sent packing. "I would never send you away."

Spike shrugged and relaxed his grip on the covers a little. "I knew that."

"Anyway, after seeing how you coped with 'Becca, I'd say those Von Trapp kids'd have you in therapy in minutes."

Riley grinned, but his attempt at levity just drew a snort from Spike. Riley sat down on the bed and took one of Spike's hands in his.

"I was just thinking, maybe it's time both of us moved on. Go somewhere together. Fresh start."

Spike looked a little awed. Then he shook his head. "You love it here. Can't take you away from your folks, you'd hate me for it." He reached for his pack of cigarettes and somehow managed to extract one and light it, single-handed. "You belong here."

Riley shook his head. "I don't know. Don't know where I belong." He got up and began pacing the room. "Left this place, joined up because I felt I didn't belong here any more. That there was something else I should be doing." His eyes focussed beyond the cabin walls. "Something bigger."

Spike looked up hopefully. "Well, no disrespect to your folks, but I did kind-of wonder whether we were just gonna spend our whole life together growin' crops to feed the masses. Someone has to do it, but it does seem a bit of a waste of our … talents."

Riley sat back down on the bed. "Don't get me wrong – I'm comfortable here. But if there's somewhere you'd rather be, I'm open to suggestions." He started putting his boots on. "I mean, there must be things you want to do, places you haven't seen. What would you be doing now, if the Initiative hadn't … if we'd never met?"

Spike was quiet for a moment. He was looking on some inner landscape, facial muscles twitching as though trying to close his mind's eye, and block some of it out.

"You don't want to know," he said firmly. "Don't want to know the kinds of things I do." Then with false cheer, he added, "You know what? I'm happy here. I'll adapt. We should just do what you said before – go out together, yeah? I won't give you any more trouble, not like I have been."

"Hey." Riley patted Spike's shoulder. "It's not a question of trouble. You have as much right to what you want as I do. It's just … I didn't know – not really. I can be dumb sometimes. You should spell things out for me if I'm taking stuff for granted, okay? I mean, I don't really know what I can do, apart from soldiering and farming, and I don't know what you can do either, but we'll work it out."

"Yeah," Spike said. "We will, won't we?"

Riley smiled in a way he hoped was reassuring, and went about his work.

~~

Not for the first time, Spike's predicament was tying Riley's brain in knots. They'd papered over the cracks yesterday, before crashing into a sleep so deep that the bedclothes left crease-marks on their skin, but the problem – two problems – remained. In their current theatre of operations, Spike was bored, and Spike was effectively helpless.

But the thought of trying to get a job somewhere else was daunting. Riley had his psychology training, but he could hardly rely on Maggie Walsh for a reference.

As for his military background: well, there was plenty of demand for his special skills, both at home and abroad, in private security or mercenary armies, but that kind of work would be just as much of an ethical minefield as the one from which he'd extracted himself when he left the Initiative.

'Fix me,' Spike had said. Riley intended to do that, whatever it took: however hard it was.

Still, it took all morning to screw his courage to the sticking place. Spike had said he didn't need help from Angel – but he hadn't actually forbidden Riley to make contact, had he?

Even thinking about it made Riley feel like a traitor, but he was running out of ideas. He'd taken the battered business card with the Japanese-style logo out of his wallet and put back again so many times that it was in danger of falling to bits. His thoughts went back and forth, covering the same arguments over and over; practising the same manoeuvres on the parade ground of his mind, until he was worn out.

It was lunchtime when he was finally ready.

The phone rang thirteen times before a ditzy and vaguely familiar voice answered. "Angel Investigations, we … hate the homeless?"

A grouchier voice in the background snapped, "Give me that!" and then the voice was loud in Riley's ear. "Sorry about that. This is Angel."

"Hi Angel. Riley Finn."

Silence: the silence of mental wheels turning.

"Spike – is he –?"

"He's fine."

A huff of breath, as though Angel wasn't sure whether he ought to be pleased about that or not. "So … why are you calling?"

Riley looked up and down the hallway to make sure no one was listening in. "I need your advice."

He imagined Angel looking at the phone as though it had turned into a banana.

"Actually, Spike – he's not fine. We're not fine. That's why I'm calling. Don't know why, but … I'm trusting you. I'm scared, Angel. I think I'm gonna lose him."

"I doubt that." Angel's reply was immediate and unconsidered. "He's pretty big on commitment. Once he latches onto something or someone, he doesn't let go easily, whether it's good for him or not."

Riley wanted to ask what Angel meant by that last phrase, but now wasn't the time, so he swallowed it. "Yeah, I got that. But he's bored here – I mean really bored. Tearin'-up-the-town-bored, and –"

"Well that's what he's like." Riley might just as well have informed him that the Pope was Catholic. "Always has been. Like a hyperactive kid."

Riley frowned. "He's been doin' pretty well hiding it up to now."

"Maybe he's growing up. You must be a good influence."

That sounded slightly resentful. And was there a tacit, 'unlike me' tagged on the end?

"He's been goin' out looking for demons to kill, but there seems to be a shortage of them around here, and when he's wound up, he ends up getting into fights he can't win with the locals."

Angel grunted. "Yeah, that's Spike alright."

"Vampire or not, he's gonna get himself killed. I don't want to lose him, but I can't keep him caged here like a … like a bison that wants to migrate. You know him – he told me you were like some kind of mentor –"

"He did?" Angel almost squeaked. "He said that?"

"Well, kind of …" Spike hadn't quite put it like that. "Anyway, I get the feeling you know Spike better than most. I was hoping you could come up with some suggestions."

A long, speculative silence followed. So long that Riley began to wonder whether Angel had nodded off.

"Angel?"

"You're in Iowa, right?"

Of course, the caller display had told him that. Not that it would have been hard to find out.

"Yeah."

"Well, there's a Hell-mouth in Cleveland. That's not a million miles from you, and it's most likely where the demons are congregating. There might be things he could do there under the auspices of Angel Investigations, and I could probably use him – on a case-by-case basis. If that's okay with you, and if Spike agrees."

Riley almost wished he hadn't asked. He felt foolish. What had he expected from Angel? The inside scoop on Spike's secret addiction to tiddlywinks, or his fascination with collecting commemorative hubcaps?

Definitely not this.

Apart from any danger inherent in the work, Cleveland was twelve hours away. Riley wasn't sure how he felt about Spike being away for days at a time, or having to drive so far. His car – miraculously – had been retrieved undamaged, but it was old, and might attract attention from traffic cops, or break down leaving him vulnerable to direct sunlight, or humans with criminal intent.

"Can't be anything that involves having to fight humans," Riley said firmly. "And nothing too dangerous, Angel. I don't want him getting hurt."

There was another silence, then Angel said blandly, "You want him to be able to fight demons without getting hurt?"

Riley glared at the phone. "He needs something to do – somewhere he fits in. Where he can _be_ somebody. Not something that's gonna get him killed. If anything happens to him –"

"Spike's a vampire, Riley – you'd do well not to forget it. And he's a tough one at that. Believe me, I know. He's pretty durable."

_"Angel!"_

"Sorry. But don't worry, I can put him on – I don't know, information-gathering, or collecting. Shouldn't be too demanding … at least until he finds his feet again."

Only slightly reassured, Riley managed to say, "Thanks. Oh, and Angel?"

"Yeah?"

"Could you … ask him? As if it was your idea? I don't –"

"You don't want him to know you called me?"

Riley responded with a guilty silence.

"He'll figure it out. He won't like being lied to either."

"Maybe he won't ask. Or maybe I'll tell him … I don't know." Riley was annoyed with himself for his indecision. "Wait a day or two to give me a chance to talk to him, then call."

"Well, you give _me_ a call before then if you change your mind."

"I won't," Riley said with a sigh. "He needs this."

"Fine."

"And Angel?"

"Yeah."

"One more thing. Small thing."

"Go on."

"Do you know any good brain surgeons?"

~~

Over the next few days, as Spike thought about Riley's offer to up sticks and move on, the practical difficulties of making a new start began to sink in. The idea of actually working for a living was – off-putting to say the least. He'd never done it before; but it wasn't as if he could expect Riley to be comfortable with a life of murdering people, then living in their houses until the corpses started to smell, like he and Dru used to do.

Even so, Spike felt a lot more relaxed. They didn't discuss the future again; for some reason, Riley didn't bring it up; but the knowledge that it wasn't set in stone made a big difference. It was as if a fog had lifted and he could at least see the far horizon, even if he never took a single step towards it. And in any case, he had all the time in the world.

Riley on the other hand …

Spike didn't like to think about how fragile humans could be; he knew all about that, from both sides of the grave. Riley was tough, but even the strongest man can fall to disease, or break his neck in a stupid accident. Spike wanted to respect Riley's wishes: let him pass in his own time, like the flowers of the field; but he wondered whether – when the time came – he'd be able to do it.

Ever since Riley had told him about the incident when Todd had almost fallen from the combine, Spike had felt a creeping sense of doom every time Riley went out the cabin door to work on the farm.

It wasn't the farm's fault; wasn't that it was especially dangerous, even. Wasn't as risky as getting involved in anything Spike was likely to get mixed up in, given the chance. So he let things ride.

Nothing to be done about it.

Maybe Riley would change his mind: let Spike turn him before it was too late.

Something would come up.

But now something else started bothering him. Riley was keeping something from him. Wasn't that obvious, but it was definitely something …

After his own recent behaviour, Spike was reluctant to cross-examine him – didn't feel he had the right – but every time the phone rang, Riley jumped like he'd sat on a prickly pear. Spike looked at him sideways but didn't ask.

Just watched and waited.

~~

Three days went by without a peep from Angel, and Riley actually felt quite relieved. Maybe Angel's reluctance to discuss the removal of Spike's chip had put him off contacting them at all.

By the fourth day, Riley had just about come to terms with the idea that Angel wasn't going to call, but at around 9 pm the phone rang. Riley jumped up, but Sarah was in the hall, and got there first.

"Spike? It's for you."

Riley was the only one who wasn't surprised.

Spike didn't make calls, or get them.

Maybe that was part of the problem.

Looking perplexed, Spike dislodged himself from the couch and went to take the call.

Riley followed him, with a sick feeling in his stomach as he prepared to defend his actions. He wished he'd come clean about it earlier.

Spike glanced at him with a puzzled frown, and held the telephone receiver almost at arm's length, as though expecting it to take a chunk out of his ear.

"Er … yeah?"

"Spike? It's me."

Spike dropped the phone and backed away. "Riley, it's Angel. How did he –? I didn't call him, Riley, I promised."

Riley felt a pang of guilt. "It's okay Spike." He picked up the phone, held it out to Spike. "I asked him to call you."

"Why? What's goin' on?" Spike looked from the phone to Riley and back. "You ask him to read the Riot Act at me?" There was suspicion in his eyes, and a little fear. "You're cookin' somethin' up. I'm not goin' back to –"

"Just see what he has to say. It's okay, really."

Spike squared his shoulders, snatched the phone, and held it a safe distance from his ear. "What d'you want, Pouf?"

"I have a job for you, Spike – if you choose to accept it."

Spike looked at Riley, his lips pursed, shaking his head in reproach. Into the receiver he said, "Phone's not gonna self-destruct in five seconds, is it?"

"What?"

"It had better pay well, tosser."

~~

When Spike had concluded his top-level negotiations, he carefully replaced the phone in its cradle, and came about with a predatory gleam in his eyes. He stalked towards Riley, who hung his head, waiting shame-faced for the onslaught.

Spike didn't say a word, but took him firmly by the hand and led him down the hall in a way that said he would brook no resistance. He poked his head around the living room door. "Night Sarah, Josh – we're turnin' in."

Riley just flashed them a tight smile over Spike's shoulder, and Riley's parents exchanged glances.

"Night, kids," his mom said. His dad just grunted.

Spike drew Riley after him out into the night, still saying nothing but keeping his eyes fixed on him, with something lurking in the depths that Riley was reluctant to define. When they got inside, Spike slammed the door closed.

Riley twitched.

He had nothing to fear – or so he told himself. Spike couldn't do anything to him that he didn't permit. For some reason, that thought didn't reassure him a great deal.

Then Spike was pressing up against him and murmuring into his ear, "I think _someone_ has something they need to say to me."

Riley's throat was dry. "I … I'm sorry Spike, I should have –"

"Told me?" Spike said softly, raising his eyebrows. His mouth was millimetres from Riley's. "Consulted me?"

Riley couldn't look away from that petulant lower lip. Hardly daring to breathe, he started to repeat, "I'm so–"

Then Spike's mouth was on his, mauling and nipping then pulling away, leaving Riley strung up tight and panting.

Spike shook his head. "I don't know." Disappointment at the betrayal dripped from every syllable. "I take my eye off you for five minutes and you run to my old sire, tellin' tales on me."

"I didn't know what else to –"

Again, Spike stopped his mouth with a kiss, this one more ferocious – more breathtaking – than the last, and again he pulled away, though Riley was fully committed, trying to keep contact with that scornful mouth; those punishing teeth.

"Lettin' the Old Man catch me on the hop – that wasn't very fair now, was it?"

Riley swallowed hard. "I know – I wanted to –"

Spike took his mouth brutally, grinding himself against him, then shoving him back against the wall with a look of contempt.

"And _whoring_ me. Pimping out my services without so much as a by-your-leave? I'm shocked Riley, truly I am."

Riley looked at him pleadingly, but Spike wasn't done with him yet. He gave the knife a final twist, saying in a low reproachful voice, "I thought you had more respect for me than that."

Riley raised his hands helplessly. "I don't know what to say, Spike, I –"

"I think you've said enough."

"Please, Sp–"

Spike put his finger to Riley's bruised lips. "Don't speak," he commanded. "Just apologise to me again."

Riley looked momentarily confused – then he identified the expression in Spike's eyes.

Bastard was toying with him!

He gripped Spike by both sides of his face and kissed him – on his throat, his eyelashes, the bridge of his nose, the hollows of his cheeks, everywhere but on the lips – until Spike was panting and moaning and writhing and laughing deep in his throat and chest, and trying to get his lips or his tongue or his teeth onto or into any part of Riley that came within range.

"Oh, I'll apologise to you Spike," Riley assured him. "I'm gonna apologise so hard, you're gonna beg me to stop."

~~

In truth, though he'd made light of it, Spike wasn't overjoyed at the trick Riley'd played on him. Even when Riley had 'apologised' so profusely that Spike didn't think he'd be able to walk for a week, he made a point of slipping asides into conversations: 'Did _Angel_ tell you that?' or, 'Wonder what _Angel_ would say'; but his snarking was only half-serious, because Riley must have been driven to the edge, for him to have turned to Hair-gel-man for help.

And when Spike thought about it, there were advantages to the arrangement, not least of which was that Angel fixed him up with fake documents; he didn't have to worry any more, about being stopped by traffic cops without any paperwork.

Then there was the money. He liked money. Liked being able to pay his own way, and get stuff without leeching off Riley's credit card.

So Spike did a few days' work here and there for Angel, and with a good grace. Nothing too taxing: hanging around demon bars listening in on conversations, making a few bucks on the side; pumping his contacts for info; hunting around second-hand bookstores, curio shops or antiques fairs on cloudy days, picking up bits and pieces – old texts or eldritch items he got wind of that might be of use to AI's new research wiz: some de-frocked watcher type, so he'd gathered – and shipping them across the country.

He didn't waste energy thinking about the rights and wrongs of it. His Dark Side credentials were pretty much shot anyway, what with dating a human, and he didn't regret it too much. Evil was all fun and larks, if you were in the right mood, but fighting the good fight – if that was what he was doing, working for Angel – seemed to pay better at the moment.

It blindsided him to find that the O-Pos he occasionally ordered, tasted sour. Had to drink it – it would have looked odd if he didn't drink blood at all, and odder still if he'd asked for pig – but he couldn't help hoping that it was nicked from a blood bank, and not tapped from the vein from some poor bugger chained up in the cellar.

It was important to blend in, but still … Could be anyone down there … could be Riley one day, or Sarah, or …

He tried to think what Riley would do. Then he remembered – Riley did whatever had to be done.

It was hard, being apart from him. They'd got mobile phones, but being away for two or three days at a time – it was hard. He'd started to think of the cabin almost as a prison, but as the weeks went by, it looked more like a haven every time he saw the farmhouse lights up ahead.

~~

Riley desperately wanted to go with Spike on his working trips; after all, demons were his field of expertise too. But he knew he had to stay strong, because he'd just stick out in the kinds of places where Spike would be hanging out; he'd make Spike an object of curiosity – even ridicule – and compromise whatever he was working on.

Spike seemed to find the separation just as difficult, and that made it easier to bear.

It was a routine that when Spike was safely holed up for the day, he would phone home before going to sleep, and when Spike's name came up on the screen, Riley would try to go where none of the other hands would see or hear him.

But that wasn't always possible.

"Miss you," Spike would say at the start of every conversation.

"You too," Riley would mutter, with his hand around the phone to muffle the sound, as he tried to ignore the amused expressions on the other men's faces. For someone with such good hearing, Spike sure wasn't afraid to be overheard.

"Can't wait to see you again, pet. Feel those hands of yours on me. Love your hands, you know that, right?"

"Yeah, I do. I know that," Riley would say, reddening as though both sides of the conversation were on loudspeaker.

"Wanna taste you. Taste like butter melting into fresh-baked bread. And that elixir runnin' in your veins – like a fine brandy the way you slip down my throat."

"Yeah, we're just … um … having lunch here too." Riley winced.

"Wanna feel that gorgeous cock of yours inside me – lightin' me up from the inside, burnin' inside me …"

"That's a … fascinating suggestion," Riley said, almost choking. "I'll give it some serious thought."

"Hope I'm not embarrassin' you – making you get a hard-on in front of your blokes."

"Yes, that's … that's what's happening, right now." Riley tried manfully to make it sound like they were discussing work schedules. "Don't want it getting out of hand."

"I hope you're not thinkin' about wastin' it before I get home tomorrow," Spike admonished, his voice like dark chocolate.

"No," Riley replied, going even brighter red. "No, I definitely won't be doing anything like that."

~~

Spike smiled into the phone.

He was kidding – of course he was. But it gave him a warm feeling to know that Riley would probably choose to take him at his word.

Big sap'd distract himself with reading, or TV, or playing cards with his parents rather than relieve his tension. Lie chaste in his bed, with his hands outside the covers, getting himself into a nice state of anticipation, while Spike went about his business on the Cleveland Hell-mouth.

"Don't forget the old adage," Spike told him. "'Every sperm is sacred' – especially yours."

"Oh, really? Why's that?"

"Tastes like honey."

~~

After his first couple of 'business trips', Spike decided he didn't think very highly of the Cleveland crowd. It was like getting moved to a new school in the middle of the summer term; the strange kids smell funny, and the teacher's always looking for an excuse to make an example out of the new boy: give him a rap with the ruler or a lick of the cane.

Not that the local demon population had given him any trouble. He'd shot pool, worked out who was who, played on his rep. The rumours of the chip didn't seem to have spread – no one brought it up anyway. It wasn't long before he had a mental list of regular contacts – all shades of shady character: card sharks, protection boys, gophers, minions, magicians and charlatans – some of them more reliable than others, but all of them useful in one way or another.

A hedge-witch even offered to magically heal his coat, but given its history, he thought better of it. Slayer mojo might interact with any additional spell-work that was done to it. Instead, he took it to a seamstress with three sharp eyes and a sharper needle, to be patched. The patches might remind him not to be so pig-headed in future.

After he'd got into a few carefully-picked fights – demons only – it wasn't long before the locals thought twice, or thrice, before crossing him. When he stepped out on the street into the world of monsters, the night seemed full of potential, and if he came home at dawn with a bruise here or there, he could say, 'You should see the other guys' – and not feel ashamed of a lie.

He felt sharp.

Even so, there was always that prickly feeling between his shoulder blades when he left the room – like they were lookin' at him, or sniggering.

When he was hanging around demon haunts, or in mouldy old bookshops, or in the back streets and sewers, Spike sometimes wondered what the bloody hell he was doing here, surrounded by variously ugly, scaly, slimy or in other ways poxy demons, when he had a perfectly gorgeous hunk of manhood simmering impatiently for him at the farm.

As he propped up the bar, he got to thinking again, about how short the span of a human life could be. He'd catch himself growing melancholy, and have to remind himself that this wasn't Willy's; he was still a stranger in a strange town, and he'd better keep his wits about him.

But when money he'd earned appeared in Riley's bank account, and some of it ended up in his pocket so he could pay his own way: get stuff without feeling beholden: so that any gifts he bought for Riley or his folks would really mean something – it felt like the right thing to be doing.

~~

One time, when he arrived home and found Riley sitting up, reading – waiting for him as he usually did – Spike didn't greet him in the usual enthusiastic manner. Instead, he placed a jewellers' box on the coffee table in front of his partner, and went out again without a word.

Riley's parents were sleeping over at his brother's place, giving Spike the perfect excuse to retreat to the main house and get a shower – wash away the smells of cigarette smoke and beer – without waiting for Riley to open the gift.

Truth was, he was scared it was too much. A ring: gold, thick and wide, and with some markings on the inside – work he'd had done to order.

~~

It wasn't too much.

~~

As Riley came into the bathroom, Spike turned towards the door, tentatively meeting his gaze through the steam. Riley pressed his left hand against the glass shower-screen, so that Spike would see the ring on the third finger.

Spike breathed in sharply and tilted his head as he moved his right hand to mirror Riley's, on the other side of the glass.

They stood like that for a long moment, drinking each other in.

Riley stripped and got into the shower, where he knew without question that Spike wanted him. Spike took hold of his left hand and pressed it to his lips, looking up at Riley with quiet intensity as he did so.

Riley's heart started to pound.

"Not just a pretty bauble," Spike mumbled as he mouthed Riley's knuckles. "Didn't think it was fair – that I can tell how you're feelin' just by your vital signs. You said you wanted to know what's goin' on in my noggin. Think you'll find the playing field's a bit more level now."

Spike dropped to his knees. He cupped Riley's balls in both hands, looked up and took Riley's cock in his mouth.

Riley was used to this treatment by now. He'd told Spike how he'd fantasized about it – how much this shower-slut act turned him on. Spike had even put on eyeliner for him.

It was just a game, right?

But with Spike's ring on his finger, it was different.

It wasn't just a game; it was a piece of bravado, to cover the truth; he knew that now, and the knowledge was … intoxicating.

As they coupled in the heat, in the steam, slick bodies sliding against each other, Riley was almost overwhelmed by the feedback; he was himself, and at the same time he was the other; he could feel everything Spike was feeling; Spike's utter devotion and boundless lust for him, mainlined into his mind and into his heart.

Spike quickly brought him to the knife edge with hands and mouth, and he felt like a god – who wouldn't? – cresting the wave again and again, without spilling over; leaning against the wall and letting Spike pleasure him compulsively; letting Spike worship him.

"How?" he gasped as he came, and Spike held him up with a hand under his shoulder, while the other mercilessly took everything he had.

"'S a spell. Ring's atomic structure's been magically altered so it's like a receiver – lets you feel what I'm feelin'."

"It's … God. Wow! It's incredible."

But as he watched Spike – still hard and untouched – working him desperately to a second climax, he sensed something darker. Everything has a shadow.

Spike truly felt like a lesser being; unworthy of him; dirt beneath his feet.

Why hadn't he seen it before?

He pulled Spike up by the shoulders and shook him. "No!"

"Sorry, did I hurt you? God, Riley I'm so –"

"No, you didn't hurt me – not like that. But you mustn't think that." Riley was almost frantic.

"Think what?" Spike genuinely seemed puzzled. "Think that I love you? That you're the best thing that's ever happened to me and I'd be a fool to let you go, and a bigger one to drive you away?"

"Stop it! Stop putting me on a pedestal, like I'm a god or something."

"Got me out of hell didn't you? Closest to God I'm ever likely to get. I know I don't always treat you that way, especially of late, but –"

"I'm not a god, Spike, I just – I love you. You don't have to get on your knees to me, please. Let us be … like we were."

"Nothin's changed, love." Spike's hurt expression nearly killed Riley. "This is how I am. Always have been."

Spike was saddened and confused, and Riley felt it in his guts – the question: isn't this how love is meant to be?

"You didn't know?" Spike asked him softly.

It was nothing Spike hadn't told him; whispered to him in extremis, or as they lay sated in the half-light of dawn, or sometimes just when he came in from the fields. But now – now he could feel it in every fibre; it was too much. Spike's entire being was focussed on him and him alone, like the light of the sun through a magnifying glass.

His legs buckled slightly and he leaned back against the tiles, his mind frozen as the hot water pounded down around him. He was everything to Spike: everything; and it was scaring him.

Spike mistook his silence for displeasure. "You don't have to wear it. Not meant to be a leash, makin' you come when I want you."

Riley took off the ring and tried to place it on Spike's finger. "You wear it – I want you to know –"

"Won't work the other way round," Spike said. "It's tuned to pick up my feelings."

"Jeez! What if I lose it? Will someone else –"

"Now you've worn it once, it only works for you." Spike pressed a hand to Riley's chest, and brushed some damp locks of hair off his face.

Riley leaned against the wall – for how long he didn't know. He watched the bubbles as they tried to stay afloat – to fight off the inevitable – but were eventually sucked down the drain.

The water was starting to run cold, and Spike was shivering, but still waiting for a verdict; hoping this gift wasn't going to somehow drive them apart.

He needn't have worried.

Riley turned the water off, grabbed a bath-sheet and wrapped it around Spike, holding him close.

"I won't leave you," he promised. "Won't ever leave you."

"You won't ever … You mean …?" Spike's eyes widened as understanding dawned. He took a deep breath and averted his gaze, not knowing where to put himself.

"Not yet," Riley said firmly. "Not for a while. There's my family … I need time to get used to it – think it through. But I can't … If I died, knowing … I couldn't bear it."

Spike drew back and examined his face to make sure he wasn't mistaken, then kissed him hard on the mouth. They stumbled, dripping, out of the bathroom and down the hall to Riley's old room where the bed was left made up in case of unexpected guests. Then Spike was pushing him down onto the bed; kneeling on the floor beside him. He took Riley's hand and slid the ring back onto his finger again, and kissed it.

This time it was better; the darkness was gone, and all Riley could feel was Spike's love burning brighter, even, than before: the shadows dispelled by a glow of relief.

But Spike was still shivering. Riley pulled him up onto the bed beside him, and dragged the covers over them both. "Come on, let's get you warmed up."

"Always warm when I'm with you," Spike said, in defiance of the evidence.

It wasn't long before they were both very warm indeed.

~~


	11. Testing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Riley tries out his new toy.

Next day, Spike's mobile didn't stop ringing. He supposed he should have expected it really. After all, boys have to test-drive their new toys, don't they? No reason Riley should be an exception to the rule. It would be harsh not to indulge him, and Spike wasn't feeling harsh at all.

Not today.

"Hey Spike!"

"Ye-ah, mate, whaaat is it?" Spike drawled, as he answered the tenth call of the morning.

"I'm in the field at the back of the house, fifty-five yards away," Riley said, as though the exact distance it were of great operational significance. "And you're … let me guess! … watching the Discovery Channel?"

Spike did a double-take at the Emperor penguins trekking stoically across the screen, then checked to see whether Riley was looking in at the window. But there was no one there. He stared at the phone again.

"How the bloody hell d'you work that out?"

"You're feeling quite relaxed, but mildly curious."

"Hmm. Not bad. Watchin' a programme about penguins if you want to know." Yeah, this was the life. However did he get away with it? "Actually I was curious. Was wonderin' why they don't just up sticks and move somewhere warmer."

"I'm getting pretty good at this!"

Riley sounded so chuffed with himself that Spike had to smile; he basked in the rays. "Too damn good," he groused. "Now leave me alone, I'm tryin' to watch the – oh!"

Spike's heart sank like a stone at the tragedy unfolding on the screen.

"What's wrong?" Riley demanded. "Are you okay?"

"Nothin'. Nothinsrong. I'm fine." Spike reached towards the coffee table for his fags, and lit up, scowling at the TV. "'S only a penguin, right?"

"What happened, Spike?"

"Bleedin' killer whale ate its mate is all."

Spike pointed the remote and blanked the screen with a sullen jab of his thumb.

"Well, if it helps, I'm sorry for its loss," Riley said, with a decent stab at sincerity.

"Don't mock this," Spike said. "How's the poor bugger gonna feed its chick? Can't take it along when it goes fishing …"

It was bloody stupid anyway, getting upset over a penguin.

It was only TV after all.

Not like it was real.

In real life, all the penguins lived happily ever after. Yeah.

Spike imagined the penguin and the killer whale sharing a smoke off-camera and bitching about the number of takes they'd had to do, while the make-up artist smeared more fake blood on the killer whale's choppers.

He almost convinced himself.

"Well, nature can be harsh," Riley said philosophically. "There's nothing you can do about it. The killer whale has to eat as well."

Spike grunted. Trust Riley to try and be fair to both sides; lucky for Spike, all things considered.

"Shame we can't send the poor old penguin a fruit-basket," Spike said disconsolately. "Just to show someone cares, you know?"

"Don't you mean a fish-basket?" Riley dead-panned.

"How much do you think it'd cost to send a small arrangement to the Antarctic by Inter-halibut?" Spike speculated, amused now, despite himself. "Have to be sent in a refrigerated container, or it'd be pretty whiffy by the time it arrived. Maybe we could hire some Navy Seals to deliver it. Of course, they'd have to find the right penguin." He frowned. "Could take days …"

"Just days, you think?" Riley chuckled. "Maybe rather than bankrupting us by sending gift-baskets to wildlife, you should just watch something a bit less traumatic – MTV or some cartoons. Hey, 'Becca will be here soon anyway, she'll keep you occupied."

"Er, Riley," Spike said. "I think it's supposed to be _me_ keepin' _her_ occupied."

But the prospect cheered him a little. Muttering, "Bloody stupid birds" Spike clicked the phone off and picked up his book instead.

'A La Recherche du Temps Perdu.'

Yeah, that should keep him occupied for five minutes.

~~

After that, Riley managed to leave Spike in peace for all of half an hour, but then he was intrigued.

"Hey, Spike. It's me."

"Who else would it be?"

"What's up? You're … sulking?"

"Am not! Like I'd sulk just because Al's beatin' me at Crash Bandicoot."

~~

By the end of the day, Riley was getting frighteningly good at reading Spike's mood.

"Hey, Spike. You're listening to a CD – maybe one of those British punk things – 'Who Killed Lassie' or something like that."

"'Bambi', you daft bugger, it's 'Who Killed Bambi?'" Spike took a drag on his cigarette and blew a smoke ring. "And don't think for one moment that I don't know you got the name wrong deliberately, Iowa Boy. What made you guess that, anyway?"

"You feel happy, but slightly nostalgic."

"Huh! That's quite subtle! You were close enough. Actually it was The Clash – 'Should I Stay or Should I Go?' – but I'm impressed nonetheless. You must be close to pick all that up."

"I'm in the stables – in the hayloft." There was a pregnant pause. "Wanna join me?"

Riley was plainly trying for sultry; Spike loved it when he did that. Almost pulled it off this time, bless 'im. Spike pretended he was clearing his throat, and definitely _not_ choking back laughter at the brave attempt. "Wouldn't want to frighten the horses, would we?"

Riley clicked his tongue in disappointment. "Alright, but if you won't play, you have to do another mood for me. Let me think … One I haven't had before …"

The phone went quiet for a second.

"Hey! I know! Do rage!"

Spike shook his head. "I can't just 'do' strong emotions to order you big pillock. Have to work my way up to rage. You know – by way of mild irritation, or possibly envy."

"Haven't I irritated you enough by calling you up all day?"

"Not in the slightest, pet." Spike closed his eyes and leaned back on the pillows.

"Must be losing my touch."

"Always a treat to hear your dulcet tones on the blower, even if you _are_ only fifteen yards away."

"Go on, Spike, do another one. Please, just one more, then I'll return to base."

Spike snorted. "'Return to base?' Alright then soldier, here's one for you. But after this one, I'm Mr Spock for the rest of the day. No more free rides on 'Spike's Amazing Emotional Roller-coaster' till tomorrow, okay?"

"O-kay," Riley reluctantly agreed. "But make it a good one!"

Spike took a deep breath in through his nose, and concentrated.

Kid wanted a ride, he'd get one!

~~

Riley sagged onto the half-door of the stall, as the wave crashed through him.

"Hmm. Let me guess …" he said weakly. "Happy?"

He thought he'd prepared himself, but the tsunami that swept over him in response nearly had him on his knees as he made his way towards the cabin. His jeans suddenly felt much too tight.

"Still not … uh … not sure," he lied unconvincingly. "Is it hunger?"

"Gettin' warmer …"

~~

Spike thrust out another pressure wave of unadulterated lust, and heard the groan of the wood as Riley leaned against the doorframe.

"No, Spike, I'm afraid this one's got me stumped."

The breathlessness with which Riley delivered his white lie made Spike smile like a cat with a bowl of double cream topped with catnip.

"Riley Finn!" Spike said archly. "I do believe you need to call the Fire Brigade."

"Why's that?" Riley gasped, still waiting outside.

"Ever hear the aphorism, 'Liar, liar, pants on fire'? I think it's quite apt at this point."

He was getting nicely warm in that area himself, come to that.

"English or American pants?" Riley asked hoarsely.

"English of course!"

"Well then, I'm quite safe."

Kid was so smug it would have been ridiculous if it hadn't been so cute.

"And, why's that then?" Spike said. He'd already guessed the answer.

"Why don't I let you find out?" Riley said, opening the door.

~~

FIN

~~

The next part of the series is, "Reflections".


End file.
